


Hurricane Castiel

by leatherandlightning (floatawaysomedays)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Violence, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Hunter!Castiel, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Temporary Character Death, Torture, mentions of cas/other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/leatherandlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is an Angel. He’s been a grunt for the most part. A soldier. And he’s good at it with his brother at his side. Fighting, and holy wrath comes natural. Until something unthinkable happens. Lucifer disobeys, and he Falls. Sam quietly disappears in a cloud of smoke and ash. God leaves the building, but before he does, he gives Dean a task, and a promotion. A charge to guard. Not just any charge. This guy is the Righteous Man. Enter Rock of Angels: Castiel</p>
<p>written for the <a href="http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/">Dean/Cas Big Bang 2013</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay i have so many people to thank.  
> first of all, this was prompted back in may and it DEFINITELY got out of hand. a big thank you to my prompters, jina, nhixxie, and veronika who were unbelievably wonderful and patient and encouraging. seriously, they've been waiting since MAY for this story. you guys rock.  
> an enormous amount of love goes out to my betas sarah and holly, my cheerleaders, cassie, AJ, madi and everyone else in the captain's logs and those of you who cheered for me on tumblr when i was in doubt or just generally being down on myself. couldn't have done it without you guys.  
> and last, but certainly not least, thank you to my beautiful, talented, fantastic artist thimblings for all of her hard work bringing this story to life. i have no words <3 her masterpost is [here](http://thimblings.livejournal.com/6479.html)
> 
>  
> 
> also noted that there is an _incredible_ amount of blasphemy in this (took lines -and characters- right out of the bible and fucked with them ngl)  
>  and a brief (blink and you'll miss it, seriously) amount of sex in this fic. like two lines. maybe three. 
> 
> other than that, enjoy!

 

It begins when Lucifer will not listen.

 

Michael has been attempting to reason with him for days now, and Dean has come to the conclusion that their brother won’t be swayed. Ever. He’s on a course set for disaster and ruin. Michael is beside himself at what this is going to come to. What he’s going to be forced to do to his beloved brother. To the Morning Star.

 

That’s Lucifer’s problem; it doesn’t have to be Samuel’s.

 

"You know this isn’t about them. This is about you, Sammy. It’s about what you think is right. Do you…" Dean trails off, half terrified to even ask what’s been on his mind, because everything hinges on Sam’s answer. Everything. “Do you think he’s right?"

"I don’t know what to believe anymore," Sam says tiredly. He deflates a little when Dean steps closer. “I don’t want to lose him, Dean. Michael can’t-"

"Michael will do what he must," Dean interjects. “He will do whatever Father asks of him. Whatever is necessary to keep order in the ranks. You know this."

"I can’t stand by and watch him throw our brother into the Pit. It’s madness, Dean. "

"This is not our choice," Dean argues.  He’s watched Michael agonize over the entire ordeal; watched his fearless, unquestioning brother be tossed back and forth in indecision over his orders and loyalty to their Father, and his unwavering love for his little brother. Over the angels that are dissenting and will likely be cast out along with Lucifer.

He knows that Michael wants nothing to do with hurting Lucifer. He knows that this is not easy for any of the angels. The divide is growing wider each day that someone doesn’t put his foot down and end the dischord. It’s agony to watch brothers and sisters argue and disagree.

It’s exactly how he feels when Sam doubts and loses faith.

"You’re going to help him." Sam whispers. “Why?You don’t have to help Michael."

"Someone must."

"No!" Sam shouts. “He’s our brother! Father made him this way for a reason. You can’t throw him out of his home, away from his family. He needs more time.."

"He’s had enough time." Dean has watched enough pain come from this. He opens his arms and his wings as if he’s pleading. “It ends tomorrow. I’m asking you to reconsider, Sam. Please."

Red-gold wings crash against his. Arms lock around his neck as Sam folds them together like puzzle pieces. Thousands of brothers and sisters, but out of everyone, out of them all, nothing has ever felt quite like Sam. Sam feels like home and safety and victory. He feels right and precious. His wings curl around his little brother like they used to when they were just fledglings playing on the outskirts of the Garden in the shadows. Times were simpler then.

Dean fears what Sam is about to say more than he has ever feared anything. It’s worse than other worlds unknown, worse than the wrath of their Father. It is a whole new realm of terrifying. Dean wants to hold onto Sam this way for the rest of eternity, their Graces brushing and bumping against one another as hunter green moves and melds with warm gold.

"Forgiveness is divine," Sam mumbles into his wing. “I pray you’ll forgive me, brother, for whatever I do tomorrow."

Dean is not supposed to be able to cry; he’s a warrior of God, but his throat closes up anyway. His bottom lip quivers, once, before he can get ahold of himself and he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. His arms lock tighter around Sam to keep him grounded, his feathers tangle and interlock with Sam’s. A last ditch effort that gets him nowhere, and achieves nothing.

"No." It forms a litany in his mind over and over again. The repetition goes beyond denial. Dean shakes his head quickly. “No, I won’t let you do this."

To cast Lucifer and the others out would be one thing, but Sam? His own? The one that fell asleep with him, nestled in feathers and robes after their nurses and keepers gave up trying to find them?

No, Dean thinks, he can’t. He won’t.

But Sam is already backing away. His eyes are bright and his feathers are ruffled, and Dean wants him back so much his wings ache with it.

He straightens his back like the soldier he has grown into and whispers, “Do what you must."

And then he’s gone.

  


Dean is there when Lucifer refuses to kneel or swear his loyalty to protect mankind. His reasoning is sound, but their Father doesn’t want to hear it. Dean is there when Lucifer stands tall and proud, hands folded behind his back under his wings. When God orders Michael to finish it, just like they knew He would, and turns away.

 

God is not the only one who can’t stand to witness what’s about to happen next. Entire garrisons shun him. Uriel and Raziel turn away. Too disgraced by what their brother has done to even watch. Anna covers her mouth with one hand and wraps a wing around herself. Gabriel lays a hand on Michael’s shoulder before he murmurs something low in Lucifer’s ear. Lucifer claps a hand on his shoulder, and then Gabriel steps back.

 

Michael approaches his brother and they both know what’s coming. Lucifer is not so proud in this moment. Judgement has been passed, and he won’t make it worse for Michael. He kneels, and flattens his beautiful, bright wings in a gesture of pure submission.

 

He bows his head.

 

To see the Morning Star brought so low is incredibly humbling.

 

Michael swallows several times before he can even put his shaking hand on the dark crown of Lucifer’s head to thread through his hair. He ends up slowly dragging the other angel closer, holding Lucifer tight against him for several long seconds.

 

Lucifer clutches at the back of Michael’s robe, lays his cheek against his brother’s stomach, and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s a parting gift of comfort, for both of them.

 

Lucifer knows Michael doesn’t want to do this. Michael knows Lucifer doesn’t want him to have to cast him aside. But Lucifer isn’t going to yield, and Michael won’t disobey his orders.

 

In the end, Dean helps Michael seal the Cage. He watches as the archangel casts Lucifer down in a rain of fire with the others into Hell. A punishment designed to keep them secluded, to keep them away. The disobedient angels that follow Lucifer end up as his knights. A different sort of Fallen.

 

Lucifer is in a class of his own making, separate from the Host and the ones that followed him into ruin.  The Cage is sealed, bound and locked and chained, in their own blood and Michael’s Grace.

 

Sam isn’t present, or accounted for. Even in the uproar that follows, Dean should be able to find him. Dean looks everywhere. He searches the libraries where Sam normally hides to find solace. He asks Bobby. He flies to the fledgling fields, he runs through the usual haunts, but it’s no use. Dean’s calls are unanswered. The familiar, red-gold hum of Sam’s Grace is missing. The warmth of him is gone.

 

Sam has fled Heaven.

 

Dean meets Michael on the edge of the City and they sit in the dark silence for hours together watching the new humans. Shoulders and wings close, but never touching. It’s quiet. Michael rests his elbows on his knees, puts his hands in his own hair and his dark, wings -ashy and soiled from the fire of the Cage- occasionally and tugs.

 

Michael doesn’t cry, but he’s damn close to it.

It isn’t long after the Fall that God hands down a prophecy to Michael to share with the other archangels and with the Council.

 

Dean is only a Seraph, a grunt, so he doesn’t have access to it, but he isn’t worried or concerned. This is normal angel business in the works. This is bureaucracy at it’s finest. The top knows the most, and the information that needs to be passed down through the masses, will be filtered. The essentials of the prophecy are siphoned so only the barest details are rendered. That’s all an angel needs. They don’t require the ‘why’, only the ‘what’. Dean doesn’t pay much attention to the other Seraphs buzzing about the prophecy, whispering behind their hands. He has more important things to tend to, blades in the armory and soldiers in training. He doesn’t have time to ponder the workings behind the curtain. He’s busy on the fields.

 

Until he’s called before the council of archangels and given a task not fit for his rank or status.

 

There will be a man born -ages from now of course- that will be the one to help Michael strike Lucifer down for good. A man as bright as the Morning Star. A man great enough to do God’s work.

 

A Righteous Man.

 

The Council doesn’t give details, they never do, but Dean feels like they’ve told him enough. The importance of this is not lost on him. The pinched look on Michael’s face alone paints the proceedings as momentous. He’s been given charge over the Righteous Man. Dean’s name is written in the prophecy.

 

He’s going to be a Guardian. He already is.

 

The Righteous Man’s only true Guardian. Dean will be the only one to make the covenant. He will be the only one to protect and serve and deliver him to Michael when the time is right.

 

It’s unheard of. It doesn’t make any sense.

 

Dean leaves the hall feeling disconcerted. Joyful, yes, but also confused. He aches for Sam’s counsel. He could look to Rufus, or Bobby, but that just seems foolish considering they know even less than Dean.

 

In the end, he sits on the information. He fights on the front with the rest of his garrison. He takes the Guardians advice, and is granted a charge to watch over as a means of practice. It’s a test run, of sorts.

 

It’s another honor Dean isn’t sure he deserves when the soul is placed in his hands. The strength and radiance of it is no less shocking.

 

His name is David, and protecting him is.. challenging. The youngest of seven brothers, David is often overlooked and left to his own devices. He’s a natural with a blade, and quick as a whip. Handsome, and tender-hearted. He’s a shepherd of a flock of sheep singing in a valley to no one but himself.  

 

Until the prophet, Samuel, anoints him as the next King of Israel, a shepherd unlike any other, and everything changes.

 

David becomes a fierce warrior. Dean teaches him everything he knows about fighting and swordplay, because the time will come where he will fight for his life and for his kingdom and for everything that he treasures. They spar in fields. In the shadows of mountains and green valleys. David is a fast learner, and he catches on. Dean teases him about his footwork; David just shakes his head and practices harder.  He teaches Dean about bruises and bloody noses. About laughter and lavender that grows along the mountainside. About the playfulness of lambs and fresh air.

 

It’s good.

 

Dean helps him fight Goliath. Battle next to David is harsh and easy. When he comes back, triumphant, Saul makes him a Commander. A soldier, and with Dean’s expertise in strategy, invisible and unseen, it’s a natural fit. They fight well together, and it’s still good.

 

Navigating humanity isn’t. Fitting in is impossible. David laughs at him constantly for missing jokes, and putting on his armor wrong. It’s confusing and difficult, and the way David grows to love his rival for the throne, Jonathan, is even more puzzling. Dean warns him against it, (you should not love him as you do, David, he will break you) but David doesn’t listen. He’s reckless and fearless with an angel on his shoulder. He took down Goliath, and he’s unafraid of Saul’s displeased remarks. He’s found grace in Jonathan’s eyes. Dean watches it blossom and bloom in David’s chest long before Jonathan clothes David with his own cloak and puts his crown in David’s hands. His armor on David’s shoulders. Declares his devotion with bright eyes, and without saying a word.

 

Dean sees it coming long before David hoarsely asks for their souls to be tied together, if it’s possible. They’ll both take wives before it’s over -each will need to produce an heir- but David wants to be joined forever. He wants to meet with Jonathan in the afterlife.

 

He tells Dean over a fire one night, Jonathan long since asleep, that he isn’t worthy of such devotion. Such unwavering faith. He can’t understand it. Can’t fathom how Jonathan came to it, but he never wants to lose it.

 

Dean has never attempted anything like this before, but for David, he tries. The moment David touches Jonathan’s hand and sobs, the bond crashing between them, Dean realizes he’s lost.

 

Heaven won’t be the same, not after this.

 

Jonathan takes the path to glory first, and David feels it when he goes. Rubbing at the ache in his chest, he whispers the mighty have fallen.

 

David is crowned not long after that. He is thirty when he first sits on the throne, and the smile on his face is thin. The absence of Jonathan is almost painful. Dean stands at his right hand and grips his shoulder, invisible to all except David.

 

Dean will never forget the reverent way he touches the crown every morning when he rises, like he doesn’t deserve it. Like he never could. He writes and sings when he isn’t busy. Men will read his songs later as poetry, and marvel at his joy and his sorrow.

 

Jonathan isn’t completely absent. He leaves behind a young son, Mep, that David loves as his own. He sets Mep at the table like the Prince he is, and hands over titles and land when he’s old enough. Mep is a brilliant scholar. He befriends David’s first son, and they rule together.

 

And when Dean leads him home, to Jonathan, he doesn’t return to his post immediately as he should. He watches David and Jonathan embrace for what feels like forever, and then he leaves.

  
  


He returns to Heaven, he looks for Sam. He listens carefully, attentively, for news of his brother. Dean waits and watches and dares to hope.

 

He wanders through the Garden and the City and he finds Bobby in the streets. He speaks with him for a few minutes, but he already knows, deep down, that Sam is still missing. Some of the angels stop in the middle of the way and stare at him; at the oddity, Seraph-turned-Guardian, he’s become.

 

There’s nothing but rumors passed from one hand to the next, and none of them are good. None of them mean anything.  
  


So he streches his wings.

 

.

 

After the in between.

 

Dean feels the weight before he hears the singing.

 

He’s standing in the eye of a hurricane in Sunrise, Florida, minding his own business. The sky is clear, and it’s warm around him for about ten miles. It’s a beautiful place to be, but Dean’s mind isn’t on the scenery. His brother isn’t here, and it’s just another place, another disaster to cross off the dwindling list in his mind. It’s getting close now, but his brother is still as far away as he was before.

 

Years later, Dean will look back at this exact moment and smile about his father’s sense of humor and wonder how much he had planned before he bowed out of Heaven.

 

The weight of a soul on a guardian’s wings is unmistakable. It’s warm and bright and it’s always different. Each one is inherently independent of the one that came before. He’s waited for this soul to find him during the rotation as the garrison watched humanity from mountaintops and stratus clouds. He’s thought about it during rough wars that seemed to drag on for decades. He’s wondered what it would be like when this soul finally came into existence.

 

This one is heavier than most.

 

The weight steals his breath, and he closes his vessels eyes as he turns his face heavenward.

 

And then the Host starts to sing.

 

It happens so rarely now, after Lucifer’s fall, that Dean takes a few moments to bask in it. His wings unfurl under the brunt of the new weight, and curl upwards as the wind starts to whip around him in earnest. Michael’s voice comes through strong and clear. Dean thinks of him leading the choir and almost smiles.

 

The song lingers and then it slowly begins to dissolve into whispers. Other older, more experienced Guardians are pushing his consciousness towards the direction of the new soul and urging him to his task.

 

Looks like the vacation is finally over.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean mutters to himself. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

 

Dean focuses on the soul, centers around a fixed point in Pontiac, Illinois, and then he flies to the Righteous Man for the first time.

 

Well, Righteous Baby is probably more accurate.

 

And holy shit this kid has a set of lungs on him.

 

Dean glances from the family, a match made in Heaven years ago by a cupid that was in much the same position Dean is in now. Unsuspecting, but burdened with an important task.

 

The woman’s name is Jane, if Dean remembers correctly. She has black hair tied back in a bun, and her eyes are closed. At first glance she looks like she’s peacefully asleep, but she’s most definitely taken something to put her under. And the man slumped in the chair must be Chuck, her husband.

 

Dean ensures that they won’t wake up until he’s long gone, and moves towards his last charge. The one that’s been foretold.

 

Dude has some big shoes to fill.

 

Dean heaves an unnecessary sigh and sticks his hands in the pockets of his dress pants

 

He knows what he’s supposed to be doing. Dean is supposed to make the bond immediately. As soon as he’s aware of his charge, a Guardian is to complete the link that’s already started to take hold. The one that calls him like a beacon, like a lighthouse to a wayward ship.

 

Dean’s stalling and he knows it. Couldn’t even pinpoint the reason he hasn’t just reached for the kid and ripped the damn band aid off. It’s not protocol to stand around and gape, but there’s just something different about this whole thing.

 

He leans over the bassinet, and peers in. The little guy is, or was, wrapped in a dark blue blanket. Tiny fists are balled up, eyes squeezed shut, and he’s still crying.

 

“Hey, baby, you wanna take that down a couple octaves?”

 

No such luck.

 

“Okay, fine. Let’s get you out of the plastic jail they’ve got you in.” Dean reaches in the bassinet and lifts the infant carefully and shifts until he’s got the baby tucked against his chest. He grabs instinctively at Dean’s lapels and holds on for dear life. “Shhh, alright now. You gotta listen for a few minutes. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Dean brushes a hand through soft, black hair, and rocks back and forth as he makes the first tentative link of the bond. He reads the name card on the front of the bassinet, and smirks.

 

“‘Castiel Mark’, huh? Well, that’s downright inspired, but I guess it’s better than ‘Apple’, or ‘Blanket’. Pretty big name for such a little man.”

 

Dean makes the link stronger as he rambles. Dean builds it up in case of serious injury, and he wards against mental attacks. He reinforces the connection so it’s easier for him to find Castiel, and harder for other angels to interfere because Dean only trusts a handful of the wings upstairs these days.

 

He doesn’t expect Castiel to grab the link and tug halfway through the process. Dean’s Grace lights up like someone has set a match to it. What was muted and reserved is now set newly ablaze. It feels like the clouds broke to reveal the sun, and Dean basks in it.His purpose has been renewed. Refreshed.

 

And Castiel has stopped crying. Opened his eyes.

 

“Heya, Cas.” Dean grins down as blue eyes look up. He feels lighter under his new assignment. His wings unfurl, and curl around the two of them. Castiel gurgles, and grabs a primary feather. Latches on with a viselike grip, and refuses to let go. It stings, but the bond between them is singing with Castiel’s enthusiasm and curiosity, so Dean shifts his right wing closer instead of dislodging the tiny fingers.

  
  


Dean hasn’t felt this happy in a long time. Since before Sam abandoned his post after Lucifer fell. Since the divide. Since Heaven mourned the loss of its favorite sons.

 

It feels like he’s holding his last hope in his arms. And it’s strong, and beautiful. Castiel’s soul is breathtaking; a shining, gleaming thing, that’s tinged in blue all over. It’s new and fresh from Heaven, and it is glorious. Praise God worthy, if Dean still believed his Father was working in mysterious ways.

 

No wonder the Host was singing so loudly for him. He’s brighter than the Son had been in the manger.

 

And that night the sky had been on fire.

 

He needs to say the vow, and soon, to complete the full Guardian Ritual. Anything less would be an insult to his garrison, himself, and the child he’s holding. To leave a task like this unfinished would be... unforgivable.

 

“We’ve got work for you, but, dude… you did not just puke on my jacket. Man, I loved this tie.”

 

Dean dislodges the fingers in his feathers, and holds the offender at arm’s length with his wings while he snaps his jacket spotless again. “Don’t diss the suit, short stuff. I’m your Guardian, but that’s not a free pass.”

 

Castiel makes a cooing noise that sounds like assent, and Dean grabs the blanket to wrap him in again before he lifts him up carefully. Dean’s been a Guardian before, but never to an infant. Luckily, Bobby was informative on the subject. On cradling the head, and presenting the child to Heaven during the Ritual.

 

He reaches in the inside pocket of his jacket, and takes out the slip of paper that Bobby had handed him with the vow on it. He reads through it quickly, before shaking his head.

 

‘I, Dean, Angel of Thursday, make this vow on the day of your birth, Castiel Mark Shurley, Rock of Angels, Righteous Man-’

 

“Dude, this is ridiculous.” Dean grumbles. “‘The day of your birth’. Really?” He debates for a minute, and then finally crumples the paper and sticks it back in his pocket.

 

Dean lifts Castiel up so they’re face to face, and smiles. “Gotta do the whole nine yards, Simba.” Castiel tilts his head comically, and Dean laughs for the first time in years. He’s gotta hand it to the kid, he’s goddamn adorable already and it’s only been five minutes. “Because he clings to me, I will deliver him; because he knows my name, I will set him on high. He will call on me and I will answer, I’ll be with him in distress. I will deliver him, and give him honor.” Dean seals the bond with a blood sigil on Castiel’s palm and a small sliver of his own Grace. It’s tighter than any other bond Dean’s ever had before.

 

He assumes it means nothing.

 

When he finally leaves, the grin is fixed on his face, and there’s a soft, green-black feather tucked in Castiel’s baby blanket.

  


The next time Dean needs to drop by, it’s over six months later.

 

He’s had some contact back and forth with the bond since then. Quick checks to make sure that Castiel is only crying because he’s upset about not getting his dinner on time, or because he’s in need of a nap and not in serious danger.

 

Dean’s been busy searching, and dodging most of Heaven’s questions and scouts. Zachariah  is looking for him, and Dean would normally shrug the whole thing off. He’s been doing is for centuries.

 

But things are different with Castiel on Earth now. Dean has something to protect. He has a job, again. A purpose.

 

And, yeah, it’s still insanely important to find Sam. Dean still spends days, weeks, months roaming the Earth searching for his little brother. A sign in Italy catches Dean’s attention, and then it seems to spread across the globe; a fire in Australia, a tornado in Kansas, a freak accident in Brazil.

 

Dean came to the conclusion on this particular day, that Sam isn’t on Earth. He’s been wasting his time searching.

 

His brother doesn’t want to be found.

 

Castiel isn’t in danger, and there isn’t any real reason to go. There’s no purpose beyond his own curiosity.

 

He’s laying in a crib, but he’s wide awake. Blue eyes blink open the second Dean’s feet touch the ground. Then there’s a smile aimed his way, and chubby little arms lifted half heartedly, and a gurgle that sounds as close to recognition as Dean is going to get.

 

Dean leans over the rails of the crib and curls his fingers in a small wave. “I think you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

 

There’s another louder gurgle, and Dean takes that as his cue. He reaches in the crib and picks Castiel up gently, settling the infant on his chest, and sitting on the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery. Folds his wings up and over the chair so they don’t end up trapped and uncomfortable.

 

Castiel makes a grab for Dean’s tie, and shoves part of it in his mouth.

 

“Dude. Always with the tie.”  Dean smirks, because Cas has grown since he saw him last. He’s filling out a little, and he’s definitely more alert. The bond sings between them. Cas keeps reaching out with his end of the link. There’s excitement and something warm pushed through.

 

If Dean didn’t know better, he would think Cas was happy he was here with him. Which doesn’t make any sense, because he’s too small to know anything about Dean, and what his presence means.

 

Dean’s suddenly terrified about what Cas will be like when he’s a grown man. He knows the day will come when Cas realizes his friends don’t have angels on their shoulders and destiny written in their souls.

 

David had welcomed an angel on his shoulder because he was a soldier, and he needed one. Cas isn’t any of those things, and Dean hopes he won’t ever be hardened the way David was. Like a diamond, crushed over and over until there is only strength. He can only hope that this task won’t permeate Castiel’s entire life.

 

Dean sighs as Cas presses more insistent warmth toward him, and this is really not the way this bond is supposed to work, but Dean can’t seem to rip himself away from it. He traces Cas’s cheek, presses back, gently, and rubs their noses together.

 

It’s insanely foolish and every angel in the garrison would laugh at him, (he can hear Bobby’s jokes already), but Cas lights up like a fucking Christmas tree, so Dean doesn’t give a damn.

 

“It’s good to see you, too, Cas.”

  


‘Just this once’ turns into another quick check. Dean tells himself it’s just because he hasn’t been in charge of an infant before.

 

He’s not used to it.

 

The crying. The helplessness. It’s like an itch under his skin when Castiel is upset or unhappy. It’s hard to focus on anything when the poor guy doesn’t get breakfast on time. His first bath is an absolute nightmare. Dude cries for twenty minutes while Jane washes him, and the only thing Dean can do is pace outside the bathroom door (invisible, of course), and curse the bond because of how twitchy he feels. He’s an angel, for Christ’s sake. Angels don’t care about baths and diapers and feeding times and burping.

 

Unless they’re Dean, of course.

 

One quick stop turns into three, and three turns into seven, and before you know it, Dean is spending a Hell of a lot of time around the little tyke. Cas grows more each time Dean visits. It’s surprising. Every time there’s something new Cas can do. Each time Dean pops by, Cas is growing up.

 

It’s becoming a habit.

 

Bobby finally corners him about it on the steps of one of the local churches. “You’re spending too much time with that boy.”

 

Dean just rolls his eyes.

 

Bobby shakes his head, points at Dean, and smiles ruefully. “Just don’t get attached, allright? He’s not gonna be little forever.”

 

Dean takes the warning with a grain of salt. He’s just watching Cas a bit closer than he has in the past. And why shouldn’t he?  Castiel is going to grow up to be the Righteous Man. The One to take on Lucifer. He deserves special treatment.

 

Or so Dean tells himself.

 

It’s all well and good. Dean shows up, makes sure the parents, Chuck and Jane, aren’t around to interfere or become distressed because a strange man is holding their baby. Dean talks to Cas. He holds his hands as he takes some of his first steps. He shushes him to sleep on the nights that Cas isn’t feeling like himself. Dean tells Cas a story about a flock of lost angels being led around by a human made of light and stardust wielding a sword forged in Hell. It’s only partially made up nonsense.

 

Dean visits Cas on a regular basis for almost two and a half years before he finally gets caught.

 

Well, before Cas lets the cat -or angel- out of the bag.

 

Dean is very careful about showing up. He doesn’t ring the doorbell, or knock. He normally flies in and cloaks himself until he gets his bearings and figures out where everyone is in the house. The only problem with that is; Cas seems to be able to see Dean even when he doesn’t want to be seen.

 

It makes hide and seek impossible, but that’s the least of his problems at this point.

 

Cas is also old enough to string some words together, and recognize people. He’s almost three now. He runs and jumps and smiles like the world will always be at his beck and call. He loves the swings in the backyard, and the park down the street that Jane takes him to every now and then. He begs Dean to tell him stories or read him something every time he shows up. He never misses an opportunity to ask.

 

And now he turns in the living room and screeches like a howler monkey before running towards Dean.

 

“Dean!!”

 

Jane is looking for something she can’t see and frowning at Cas. Her eyes dart around the room quickly before she tries to catch Cas in her arms.

 

“Cassie, nothing’s there.”

 

But Cas isn’t having any of it. He’s pouting, and kicking to get back to the floor. “Mama, Dean, please.”

 

Dean isn’t waiting for the little guy to start with the tears, he really isn’t. He figures Jane has a right to know that an angel is watching over her son. It’s not against the rules, technically. Sometimes it’s a necessary evil.

 

He remembers the first time he appeared to Jonathan. Dean took a sword in his gut for that one.

 

David had laughed until he collapsed in the dirt, holding his stomach and pointing at Jonathan.

 

So he unveils himself, and holds his hands out when Cas finally tumbles to the floor, Jane’s grip loosened by surprise.

 

He giggles and squeals and raises chubby arms so he can be lifted into Dean’s arms. So he can wrap his arms around Dean’s neck, burying his fingers in Dean’s right wing, and burrowing into his shoulder. The bond flares and comes to life from Cas’s end. Dean echoes the happiness, and settles Cas on his hip.

 

Jane is staring at them, but she’s not screaming, so Dean figures that’s a point or two in his favor.

 

She does, however, cross her arms over her chest and glare at Dean.

 

“Dean, you’re back!”

 

“Yeah, just for a few minutes.”

 

“Want to read a story?”

 

“As tempting as that is,” Dean glances at the clock. He’s ten minutes early, damn it. “I think it’s naptime.”

 

Cas raises his head to frown at Dean, and now he’s got a pair of matching blue eyes frowning at him. “But-”

 

“No ‘buts’, little bird. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Cas seems to consider his options for a minute before finally nodding.“Okay.”

 

Dean hugs him tight before he sets him on the floor, and then Cas is hugging Jane’s legs and taking the stairs two at a time to complete his hour in solitary confinement.

 

And Dean is alone with Jane. He shoves his hands in his pockets because, wow, this is really awkward.

 

“So.” Jane starts. “You’re Dean.”

 

“Uh, yes. Yep, that’s me.”

 

“What are you?”

 

“I’m an angel. A Guardian, to be exact.” Dean pauses. “I’m Castiel’s Guardian.”

 

Jane doesn’t even miss a beat. “Angels are a myth.”

 

Which is hilarious, because Dean knows full well that Jane has fought hundreds of things that are supposedly ‘myths’. Vampires, werewolves, skinwalkers, and yet angels are always the ones that never get any credit. They’re always the ones written as fiction instead of fact.

 

It’s hilarious. “Yeah, I know you hunter types are gonna be hard to convince, but let me assure you. We’re the real McCoy. Wings, halos, the whole nine.”

 

“Ookay, say you’re real and I’m not dreaming this. Say angels do exist.” Jane starts. “Then why protect Cassie?”

 

Dean blurts, “He’s special,” before he has a chance to think about it.

 

Jane tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “Of course he is, but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

 

“No, no. He’s important. To Heaven.” To me, Dean tacks on the end, because it’s true.

 

“This-, you-” Jane’s hands ball into fists at her side. “I don’t know what you think he is, but you’ve got the wrong one. He’s not like that. He’s human.”

 

“Exactly,” Dean says. “He’s human. He’s going to help us fix this.”

 

“Fix what?” Jane demands. “You’re angels, can’t you just,” She waves her arms. Dean knows exactly what she means to say.

 

If only it were that easy.

 

“Short version? A long time ago, in a land far, far away, an angel was cast out of Heaven. Not just any angel, the brightest of us all. You’ve probably heard of him.” Jane shakes her head, disbelieving. Dean presses on. “Lucifer. Cas is going to help Michael finally strike him down. He’s going to save humanity. He’s going to fix it. That’s why we need him.”

 

“How?”

 

Dean shuffles his feet. “They don’t tell me much. I’m not too high up on the food chain. I mean I’m a,” He gestures with one hand. “A warrior. The higher-ups hold all the cards pretty close to their chest, if you know what I mean.”

 

Jane is deadly silent for a few moments. Her stare is piercing, he feels it like a tangible, painful thing. Her eyes well up, suddenly. She gets in Dean’s face and jabs at his chest. “He is not Jesus, and I am never going to be Mary, and we are not having this conversation. You go and tell the rest of the angels. I don’t care if you have to tell God himself. You can’t have my son. None of you. I’ve done my time fighting demons and monsters. Cassie is normal. He’s human and good and he’s perfect. I never want him to become what I was. He deserves more, he deserves to have a life. So, you go find someone else to save the world. Go find someone else to fight the Devil. I’m telling you, Dean, angel or not, prophesy or not, you can’t have him.” She swipes at her eyes angrily. When she points to the door, her hand doesn’t shake. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

  
  


“I hate you.” Castiel calls over his shoulder.

 

Dean chuckles, half a step behind. “Nah. You love me. Can’t lie to an angel, cupcake.”

 

“Quit calling me that.”

 

“Jo started it.”

 

“I don’t care who started it. I’ll finish it.” Cas clicks the safety on his pistol and sticks it in the trunk. He slams the lid, and leans against the rear bumper of his car. “If you’re going to show up after I do all the dirty work, next time I’ll pray at you until you can’t take it anymore.”

 

“Not my fault you start hunting at the asscrack of dawn.”

 

Cas raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest. His black henley stretches, easy, across his chest, his watch catches the lightning flash for a fraction of a second, his hair sticks in several different directions. There’s only one word to describe early morning Cas. Rumpled. Or, maybe, ruffled. If the guy had feathers, they’d be all over the place. “Angels don’t sleep.”

 

They aren’t supposed to completely lose themselves either. Or perform unauthorized miracles, or seriously interfere, like Dean did, or meddle to change timelines. Dean’s been through the ringer with Cas, though. Everything that wasn’t on the menu, somehow ended up on the table anyway. A fire when Balthazar was barely old enough to sit on his own, when Cas started telling his teachers in his serious four year old tone of voice only Cas could pull off, that angels were real. And why didn’t all of the kids his age have Guardians watching out for them with huge wings and bright smiles?

 

Because Dean was real, obviously. Even if Jane had asked him to stay out of their home, and out of their lives. Even if she had carved anti-angel symbols into the entrances and the windowsills.

 

Dean wasn’t able to hold Cas for almost two years.

 

Things sort of spiraled after that. Demons asking questions, getting too close to their mark with too much information. To be fair, Dean could have wiped all their memories after he stepped in during the fire.

 

Dean could have, but he didn’t. The two years separation had been too much, and maybe Dean was a little selfish.

 

If he’s being honest, Dean wouldn’t categorize himself under the ‘normal angel’ umbrella anytime soon anyway.

 

Dean sighs. “Yeah, well. I was ocupado.”

 

“It’s not even Thursday, it’s-” Cas holds his arm out and squints at his watch in confusion. “It’s Sunday. Don’t you have mass, or choir, or Sunday School with the God Squad. Some prior engagement where you leave me alone so I can sleep in peace until I have to listen to your ‘save the world’ drivel.”

 

“Wow,” Dean puts a hand to his chest. “You know that really hurts.”

 

Cas gives a tired grin. Dean smiles back; he can’t help it. “Cut you real deep, did I?”

 

“As a matter of fact-”

 

“Good.”

 

Cas is... well, he’s teasing. Dean knows that. He’s had a long day, a long week more like, and he’s exhausted. Dean can feel it just barely dripping through the bond like Cas doesn’t mean for it to seep through. He never lets on how drained he is.

 

Dean usually only drops in on Thursdays, unless there’s something incredibly urgent that needs to be addressed. After Balthazar fucked off to Dean knows where, leaving Cas with a car of weapons and no little brother to protect, Cas had made a rule.

 

Actually, Cas had a list and the number one rule (underlined and bolded) clearly stated that he should check in only on Thursdays.

 

Like the Yankees-Red Sox game. When Cas needs someone to throw popcorn at. Or that time that Cas was having pie at the diner, but didn’t invite Dean directly. Just sort of poked at the bond until the pie was mostly gone.

 

Now that was rude.

 

With Cas at loose ends for the most part, and Ellen and Jo the only two really keeping tabs on him with any diligence, Dean makes sure he’s around at least once a week. Visibly.

 

Just in case Cas has landed himself a hunt where he needs an extra set of hands, or a pair of wings.

 

Cas heaves himself from his place on the car, and walks around to the driver’s side. “I’m tired, sore, and hungry, Dean. Get in and tell me on the way, or get gone.” The ‘and it had better be damn important’, goes unspoken, but Dean hears it just the same.

 

Dean starts, “But-”

 

Cas is already in the front seat, and the key is already in the ignition.

 

Dean sighs and zaps into the passenger seat. It’s not half as much fun as it used to be. Hell, Cas doesn’t even jump anymore. He throws the car in drive and turns the tape up. Dean digs the pack of smokes out of the dash and hands them over wordlessly. The itch in the bond says enough. The routine is flawless, by now.

 

Cas flicks the lighter up at a red light in the middle of town at five in the morning. The light flickers, and casts a shadow and makes him look ten years older. The circles under Cas’s eyes look deeper, more pronounced. Dean pulls at his tie, anxiously.

 

Someone is singing about the thunder of guns and tearing someone apart, but Dean doesn’t know this song and Cas is sucking poison into his lungs and reaching between the seats.

 

He tosses a file at Dean and nods down just before the light turns green. “Aunt Ellen sent me a case in Montana. Got any ideas?”

 

Dean flicks through the first few autopsy reports and catches on pictures of circles of dead grass. Like crop circles, only instead of corn fields, these circles have materialized in front lawns and the town park. They’re eerie in a familiar way. Like Dean has something stuck in his memory that’s trying to scream this is a bad thing, stay away.

 

Keep Cas away.

 

But he can’t nail it down; it’s just a ghost of an old feeling, so he shrugs and lets Cas finish.

 

“Do angels play games as children?”

 

And that is not at all the question Dean thought Cas would ask.

 

“Uh. What?”

 

Cas sighs, and flicks the ash out the window before turning the stereo down. “Are you ever small? Like kids?”

 

“Fledglings, you mean. Yeah, we have nurseries. Or, we used to.” And now Cas is side-eyeing him like he’s dying to know what Dean is holding back. He’s always eager to soak up new information, just like Sammy that way. Dean’s brother was always poking and prodding at the new humans. Infinitely curious about what made them tick and smile and cry. They’re both too observant for their own good.  “Doesn’t matter. What’s with the questions? I thought this was about crop circles or something.”

 

“I don’t know if you remember...” Cas shifts in his seat, grips the wheel a little tighter, and Dean can see it coming from a mile away. Cas’s memories of his mother before the fire are few and far between, but Dean’s aren’t. He’s hoarded the stolen moments of reprieve to look at when he was away, and now he remembers Cas as a toddler laughing on the ground with Jane. “Mom used to play that game with me. Ring around the roses?”

 

“Yeah. She used to swing you in a circle as she sang, and then you fell down, right? Cute game based on some crappy plague.”

 

“The kids that are singing in this town are dying. Or so I hear.”

 

“Indiana, huh?” At least it isn’t far from Pontiac Dean’s going to have to say it sooner or later. Might as well rip off the bandaid.

 

Cas finally pulls the cigarette away from his lips, and smoke curls out of his mouth as he presses the gas pedal to the floor. “What?”

 

“There’s somebody..” Dean starts, and then trails off. Cas doesn’t look too concerned yet, but Dean knows he’s not gonna like where this is going, where it always goes. “In Pontiac.”

 

“Illinois?” Cas says dully. “Oh. At the house.”

 

Dean waits, which is stupid because he knows Cas isn’t going to ask. No reason why he should. Balthazar has been gone for years now, Chuck disappeared in a cloud of dust in that rusty old pickup he favored, leaving Cas with a rulebook, the Mustang, and not much else. Cas has adapted. He’s a one man operation now, complete with abandonment issues, an unhealthy dependence on tobacco products, and sleep deprivation. He’s a terrible cook, and he always forgets to eat unless Ellen reminds him, but he’s quick on his feet and he never misses a shot. He’s taken on more hunts in the last year or two than any other hunter in the network.

 

He’s becoming a legend.

 

Cas thinks he’s the main reason Balthazar left. Bullshit, as far as Dean is concerned, Balthazar too. They all know better.

 

Except for Cas.

 

So Cas isn’t going to ask, and he’s not going to wonder. He’s going to ignore it unless Dean finishes his thought.

 

“Balthazar is at the house.”

 

Dean thinks it’s a damn good thing they’re in the parking lot at the motel this early, or Cas might have just wrecked his ‘67 Mustang over five words with the way he’s gaping at Dean. “What did you just say?”

 

Dean really hates it when Cas plays stupid. Especially when he can feel the shock roiling through the link. Humans, sometimes. Thousands of years, and he believes he’ll never truly understand them. “You heard me, asshole.”

 

Cas sits with the car running in park for a few minutes and stares straight through the windshield at something Dean can’t see.

 

Then he abruptly turns the key and yanks it out of the ignition, and opens the door with a quick, angry jerk of his wrist; the shock from before has transformed into something else entirely, something close to rage.

 

“Cas?”

 

Dean follows behind. He gets out of the damn car the human way, and finds the correct room, right on Cas’s heels.

 

“Say something, man.”

 

Always a room with two single beds. Some habits die hard, and Dean thinks this one will never die out of Cas. The smokes and the drugs would go first before he asked for a double at check-in automatically, the clerk always glancing around and behind Cas to make sure that he hadn’t missed something, and then narrowing eyes at Cas, the obvious crazy person harboring a ghost. One bed is untouched, the other sheets are kicked off and twisted at the foot of the bed. The sun is filtering in through the window onto the uneven table littered with papers, paper and tobacco to roll cigarettes, and Cas’s laptop. Cas is leaning with both hands on the table, his head down. The light is like a reverse halo effect. If Dean wasn’t worried, he would stop to stare.

 

Instead he fits a hand to Cas’s shoulder, and squeezes.

 

Cas shrugs him off after a while, and sits on the bed to remove his boots. “What do you want me to do about it?”

 

Maybe Dean should beat around the bush. Maybe he should lie, or try and pull the wool over Cas’s eyes when it comes to this, but a huge part of his relationship with his charge these days is honesty and trust. He could tell a white lie and make this less painful, but Cas is just going to find out anyway.

 

“I think you should go.”

 

“Home?” Cas’s voice cracks on the word, but he doesn’t glance up from un-working his laces. Moving them through the eyeholes. “No, Dean.”

 

“Yes. Listen, I know how it is,” God help him, Dean knows about going home. He knows how hard it is to force yourself to go back to a place where you aren’t sure you’re welcome anymore. he knows about the looks and the whispers behind hands. “But you gotta go back. Your dad...” Dean trails off.

 

“He’s never coming back, is he?” Cas asks flatly. Like he already knew this was where the visit began, and they’re ending it right where it belongs.

 

You don’t know that. Dean wants to scream. Because Cas doesn’t know.

 

He doesn’t know about the hours Balthazar has spent writing him letters and then tearing them apart. He doesn’t know about the year his little brother spent struggling through college trying to make friends and fake normal.

 

Balthazar hasn’t had it easy, Dean knows. But he’s attempted to put the hunting life behind him. He never wanted that for himself. Never wanted it for Cas, either, but Cas is a stubborn bastard, and he had his orders.

 

He reminds Dean of Michael so much sometimes it’s hard to keep them straight.

 

“I won’t lie to you.” Dean says quietly. It’s not quite the blow Cas was expecting, but it’s still a punch in the gut, and he threads angry hands through his hair from his place hunched over on the bed.

 

“Fine.” Cas replies, and then he’s flopping back on the bed and rubbing at his eyes. “Is that all?”

 

Even if it wasn’t, Dean wouldn’t throw anything else at him. Not now. Cas has had enough. “Yeah, man. That’s all.”

 

He’s already curling up on his side, his left arm stretched towards the other bed. “You staying?”

 

Dean flicks the TV on, and sits on the other bed. The news flashes, fires and theft and murder, before he can change the channel. He tosses his suit jacket where the blanket has started to fray, and draws the shades closed with a snap of his fingers. “Maybe for a few hours.”

  


Dean gets take out, burgers for Cas, pie for both of them, and brings it back to the room. Cas is sleeping, soundly. His face mashed into his pillow, and his knees drawn up to his chest. So Dean ruffles his hair softly, leaves the food, and takes a little trip.

 

To Pontiac.

 

The funny thing about Balthazar, is that Dean is positive something happened in that nursery during the fire. There’s been a taint around Jane’s second son since that night, since Cas carried him out. Something dark that grew like a weed through his system. It’s roots dug in and clamped down unlike anything else.

 

Dean has been trying to figure that particular mystery out for years. No dice.

 

But Balthazar is a good kid. He’s funny, smart as a whip. His sense of humor is ten times whatever Cas inherited from their parents. He’s a free spirit with a good heart, and he’s grown like a weed since Dean saw him last.

 

Well, since Dean spied on him last, but those are just details.

 

He couldn’t let him leave on that bus, alone. Especially after Cas hadn’t spoke to him, or anyone else for that matter, for over a month. Had clammed up, and started carrying a notebook with him to write things down. Pointed to items on a menu that appealed to him. Learned to speak in gestures and facial expressions instead of actual words.

 

So, Dean started spying.

 

It started out the same way Dean started visiting Cas. He would drop in, unannounced, and check on everything. Dean was only supposed to be protecting Cas, but a deeper part of him needed to keep Balthazar safe as well because Cas needed it.

 

He watched Balthazar get an apartment. Watched him try, and fail, miserably, to cook a chicken for the first time. Dean watched him get a regular job at the college library. Waited with him as the results for his finals came in.

 

He watched him meet the love of his life. Marressa.

 

She was a gorgeous little thing. Sharp blue eyes, and short, dark hair. Her smile was quick and easy, and she flirted playfully with him for almost six months before she finally gave Balthazar her number and told him not to lose it, or he’d be sorry.

 

She didn’t take any of Balthazar’s shit.

 

She called him on his bullshit story about his family life two weeks into their relationship. Told him that she didn’t care if he didn’t want to talk about it, but it wasn’t fair to lie to her about anything. She would rather have the truth, or nothing at all.

 

Balthazar had chosen to keep it to himself.

 

The decision had cost him dearly.

 

Dean watched them move in together. Watched their lives blend and meld until he was sure. Unfortunately, now he’s watching Balthazar wander around the empty house of his childhood with a bottle of Jack in one hand.

 

He’s stopped just outside of Cas’s room, or the dusty, rebuilt version of it, free hand steadying himself against the door jam. It’s very quiet.

 

He looks pretty pathetic if Dean’s going to be honest, but he understands. He gets it. Balthazar has no idea where Cas is; he lost that privilege when he boarded a bus nearly four years ago.

 

Dean wonders where Chuck is and almost sighs.

 

Absent fathers are not outside of his jurisdiction. He knows all about it with a God that gave up on his angels after the Fall.

 

Dean doesn’t talk about God. Cas only had to ask once to find out why. Cas never talks about Chuck. Dean never asks.

 

Balthazar is different, though, always was .He’s more single-minded than Cas was. And if his new history is about to mean anything, Dean thinks they might be going to find Chuck sooner than he thought.

 

After all, two heads are better than one. Especially when revenge is involved.

  


The ride to the house is very quiet. Cas doesn’t talk, and Dean doesn’t press when he cranks the dial and steps on the gas.

 

By the time he shows up on the doorstep, it's two in the morning. Balthazar takes one look at Cas and locks the door behind himself before hugging the life out of his brother.

 

Dean relaxes a bit. It’s not a perfect reunion, but it’s progress.

  
They're all hungry, and there’s a twenty-four hour restaurant right down the road that Jane used to take the boys to. Dean figures it’s better to have this sort of conversation out of the house that killed their mother, and broke their father.

 

Sometimes neutral ground just makes everything simpler.

  


"French toast."

 

"Dean, you don't-" Cas starts, but Dean holds up a hand.

 

Cas really hates it when he does that.

 

"Extra syrup. Oh and could you put some ice cream on that?"

 

"Sure thing, hon." The waitress winks, and gives Dean an indulgent smile as she marks his order down. He hands her his menu and sits back in the booth, flicking invisible lint from his suit jacket.

 

Angels.

 

Cas rubs at his temple and sighs. He’s tired from the drive, and he barely slept the night before.  "I'll just have a burger, please."

 

Balthazar orders something equally ridiculous to Dean's breakfast, and they all sit awkwardly while the waitress goes to put their order in.

 

"Well." Dean says. "This is nice."

 

Nice. Cas almost laughs. This is stupid, Cas thinks to himself, ridiculous. Instead, he sighs. "Yeah."

 

Still stupid, though.

 

"So, how've you been, Cassie?" Balthazar asks, leaning over the table. "Haven't seen you in ages."

 

That much is true, at least. It feels like an eternity. It feels like it's been forever since Cas looked across a table at Balthazar and held his eyes. Since he was within touching distance.

 

It hits him that he could actually reach out and touch his brother. He could grab his collar and punch him, grab his collar and hug him half to death, again. Cas isn't sure which sounds better right now. The fight would be easier than the small talk; it always is. The summer spars were always simpler than anything else. It’s easier to read someone else when they’re trying to set you on your ass. It’s easier to fight back.

 

It’s harder to read anyone when you care so goddamn much. All that emotion gets in the way of the truth.

 

"Fine." Cas answers. He’s hunted a hundred monsters since Balthazar climbed onto that bus and was whisked away with the last of the summer heat. He’s fighting darkness with light he’s not even sure he has anymore. He’s been lonely and scared, dirty and tired. He’s lost himself in the job, in smoky bars and hustling pool tables, but that’s not the point. He’s had Dean, and that’s been enough. Enough to make him take risks and hunt things by himself other hunters wouldn’t dare take on. His father should be proud, but instead he’s fucked off and left Cas on his own. It’s madness. Half the time he wonders why he even bothers anymore. He’s just one guy in a world crumbling at the edges. He saves one and another dies. His life is a shambles, but Cas can’t say that. He won’t. It’s too close to the truth. "You?"

 

"Alright, I suppose."

 

But it doesn’t sound like it is, alright. Something has happened, Dean shifts next to Cas and fiddles with his napkin before tearing into small shreds, taps his foot against the booth, which means he knows something that he's trying not to let on to. He's trying to keep something from Cas, or from Balthazar, or from both of them.

 

"Dean."

 

"Mm?" He won’t meet Cas’s eyes..

 

Honestly, it’s like having a two year old follow him around some days. Most days, in fact. Cas clamps a hand on Dean’s thigh and glares at him. "Stop that. You’re shaking our entire side of the booth.”

 

He has the courtesy to look contrite about the whole thing. "Oh, sorry."

 

Cas shakes his head, and then he's turning back to Balthazar, ripped napkins shoved aside. "Is that code for something? What does that mean, ‘alright’? Is that better or worse than ‘okay’?”

 

"His girlfriend of two years went up in a fire about three months ago." Dean says to the fake plant hanging over the half wall, dividing the booths from one another.  

 

"What." Cas balks. Dean can’t be serious. Cas... Cas would know if something like that, something terrible and tragic, happened. Balthazar would have called him.  They’re brothers, they deal with this stuff together. His hand is still gripping Dean’s thigh, the muscles flex under his fingers. "You're joking."

 

Balthazar folds his hands on the table, bows his head to stare at the ads on his placemat. "No, he's really not."

 

"I’m..." Cas trails off, deflating, because what is he supposed to say? No amount of apologies or platitudes is going to fix this. Make it better. "So sorry, Balthazar."

 

"Not your fault, Cassie." He whispers.

 

"How did-"

 

Balthazar looks up and his eyes are hardened steel, like their father's. Cas recognizes the look instantly, and he quiets. It spells trouble. It means revenge. He knows what's about to happen before it does. Can practically see the words forming before they spill out. "She was pinned to the ceiling when I came home from work one night. In her nightgown."

 

"Ironic." Dean says wryly.

 

Cas’s mouth opens and closes, like a fish, but he does have enough brain power left to stare at Dean incredulously. “Dean-”

 

“What? There’s no point in crying over spilt milk. It’s over.”

 

"No, he's right." Balthazar interjects. "He is."

 

"Three months ago, but that means.." Cas is looking at Dean again, because he didn't really keep that sort of thing from him for that long, did he? Dean wouldn't. Dean knows about wayward brothers, he has enough of his own. He wouldn't deliberately keep information about Balthazar from Cas.

 

Would he?

 

"I had a few things to settle up. Lease on the apartment, quit school, that sort of thing."

 

"Oh." Cas didn't even consider that. He doesn't know what to do now. His world has been turned a little on it's side. Balthazar quit college? But, what now? "So, do you have a job, or-"

 

"Cassie." Bathalazar smiles ruefully. The nickname slips out easy and familiar. "I forgot how blissfully clueless you were sometimes."

 

Cas shakes his head, adamant. “You got out. You’re done, you’ve said it yourself.”

 

“He’s a grown man, Cas.” Dean grins at the waitress as she places his order on the placemat. “He can, and has, made his own decisions. Believe it or not this isn’t his first big boy pants moment.”

 

Cas looks between Balthazar and Dean, obviously missing something, but unsure exactly what it is, before slumping in the booth. He’s outnumbered, and Balthazar isn’t easily dissuaded.

 

“I have a case. Montana.”

  


They end up back at the house.

 

Dean leaves shortly after, a few quiet words about something that cropped up in Jerusalem, and then he’s off again.

 

Balthazar just stares at the empty space after Dean flutters off in a gust of wings and feathers. Like he’s missed something, or he’s about to.

 

“Dean never left, eh?”

 

Cas sheds his coat and drapes it on the back of the chair by the door. “Was he supposed to leave?”

 

“Well, I assumed he would. How long do these Guardianships last, anyway?”

 

The corners of Cas’s mouth turn down slowly. “Until I’m dead, or the angels say otherwise, as far as I know. Why?”

 

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Balthazar points a finger in the air and waves it around. “Whole plethora of angels floating around up above, and they decide to send one down to, oh, just you. Doesn’t that seem...I don’t know, fishy? To you?”

 

Cas squints in the growing light. “You think Dean is guarding me for nefarious purposes.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“He’s not all bad,  Balthazar. I know what you think about Mom and the fire, but-”

 

“He’s a bloody angel for fuck’s sake,” Balthazar yells. “He was supposed to be protecting you, right? So why didn’t he know?”

 

“Mom hated him. She hated what he stood for. She carved those goddamn angel sigils into everything in the fucking house. We’ve been over this.” Cas seems to catch himself and rubs a hand over his face before he continues. “I don’t have all the answers. I didn’t back then, and I still don’t. Dean isn’t perfect, but he’s done his job. He’s watching my back, he’s always there when I call. He only swore to protect me, remember? The fact that he made sure you were alive as well...”

 

Balthazar shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

 

Cas turns to go up the stairs to his old room and almost laughs. “We fight monsters. Angels are real, and they like pie and insist on sugar in their coffee and bad television. We live in a sorry world, ‘Zar. None of it is ever going to make any sense. The sooner you make peace with that, the deeper you’ll sleep at night.”

  


Cas has a case outside of Livingston, Montana. Ellen says she passed the other one, about the crop circles, to a different hunter already.

 

Which is just fine, considering she’s got a lead on a possible salt and burn. Cas jumps at the chance for something uncomplicated and straightforward. Dean is sure Balthazar hasn’t lost all of his research skills (he digs up information on the abandoned house outside of town in under five minutes using only the books in the library), but his shooting leaves a lot to be desired.

 

It’s practically open and shut. Family is brutally murdered in their home and rumor has it that the father was never given a proper burial. Odds are he’s hanging out

 

“Dean.”

 

“What?”

 

Cas leans a little closer, and pretends to take a drink. “Eleven o’clock. Gray dress.”

 

Dean finds her, and presses his arm against Cas’s, leans over the bar. “She’s pretty.”

 

“She’s beautiful.”

 

Dean wouldn’t go that far.

 

Yeah. Okay. Maybe she was very pretty. The dress hugging her just right around her waist, her heels just this side of sexy. Maybe she was.. nice. Whatever.

 

“I thought you were working.”

 

“Was. Was working. I talked to the guy, and now I’m finished. Besides,” Cas shrugs slightly. “I think I deserve a little fun, don’t you?”

 

That’s the crux of things. Dean thinks Cas deserves a lot of things. He deserves to have a mother that isn’t six feet under, a brother that sticks around, for good, a father, a family. A better life than the hunt. Cas is better than all this, and Dean knows it.

 

Cas deserves that apple pie life he dreamed about when he was sixteen and holding Lucy Smith’s hand by the railroad tracks.

 

But now that’s a pipe dream, and this is reality.

 

Dean claps Cas on the back, like any childhood friend would do, like any buddy would, and tries to grin genuinely. He means to say, ‘Knock her dead, Casanova.’, but the words never make it out.

 

Because Sam, his Sam, walks into the room and Dean grips his beer so hard the glass shatters in his hand.

 

“Dean?”

 

Out of all of the places he’s searched, all the corners of this godforsaken planet, all of the stars and the clouds and deserts, this is where Sam chooses to turn up. Fucking Montana. In the middle of nowhere.

 

To be fair, Sam has gone still as well. He’s blocking the doorway, and people are trying to get around him with little to no success.

 

Cas is in his line of sight all of a sudden. Eyes flicking from him to Sam, Eleven o’clock long since abandoned. He looks worried, anxious, which doesn’t make sense. Cas never looks worried, not around him. “Dean. What the hell is going on.”

 

Oh, yeah. Cas.

 

Everything comes screaming back. Ages, years without Sam, but searching relentlessly for his little brother. Hundreds of years wondering if he was dead or alive. Questioning everything.

 

Twenty-six years with Cas. Defending, guarding, protecting.

 

“Get behind me.”

 

Dean pushes, gently, takes a step forward and to the right until he’s standing in front of Cas with his wings coming up to shield Cas from view.

 

Sam will know what it means.

 

“Take this.” Dean holds his angel blade behind his back, because Sam is only looking, and not moving. Dean assumes there’s too many witnesses. Too many people to say what he really wants anyway. There’s safety in numbers so Dean is taking his chance to get Cas away. “You know where the back door is, I saw you looking for it earlier. Get in your car, and go.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“Get out of here, Cas.”

 

“Not without you.”

 

Why. Why was he entrusted with the most frustrating human on the planet. God help him, Dean thinks sometimes it’s a test of his willpower. Or his faith.

 

Whatever it is, it’s bullshit.

 

“I swear to God, Cas-”

 

“Dean.”

 

And now it’s too late, because Sam has decided to make a move. He’s decided to take a few steps into the room to get out of the way of the people still trying to enjoy the celebration. Dean puts up a hand, and spreads his wings defensively. He doesn’t know what Sam’s game is here. He would like to think he knows this angel better than any other.

 

But that was before Lucifer, and the first War, and Dean just isn’t sure anymore. Lucifer is in a cage, and Dean helped Michael put him there. Sam abandoned his post and left Heaven for whatever reason, good or otherwise, and never came back. Sam is a wild card, and Dean doesn’t like his odds with Cas around. It’s a chance he’s not willing to take.

 

“Don’t come any closer, Sammy.”

 

Sam frowns slightly, and stills immediately. “It’s Sam.”

 

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. The questions are frozen in his throat, choked on, and pushed down.

 

Accusations fly out instead.

 

“Where the hell have you been, man? Everything is falling apart upstairs. I looked everywhere. I thought...I thought you were dead. And you’re-”

 

Dean starts to take a step forward, to hit or hold Dean isn’t sure, but Cas has two fingers tight around the belt loop of his dress pants, and barely tugs him back. Holds him in place.

 

Funny, how Cas anchors him when it should be the other way around.

 

“You’re alive.”

 

It comes out hoarse and harsh. It’s a loaded statement. With anger and wonder mixed up in sadness. There’s a tightness in Dean’s chest that won’t go away, and a stinging in his eyes that he can’t blink through. Because even if he allowed himself to hope, that little voice always piped up in the back of his mind that said, you’re wasting your time, and, he’s dead, Dean, it’s too late.

 

You couldn’t save him.

 

That voice is silent as the grave now.

 

Sam looks at the floor and shuffles his feet, like he knows he’s guilty. “I know.”

 

“You know?!” Dean yells. And now it’s less about protecting Cas, and more about how Sam is an asshole.“You know, and you didn’t do anything. Didn’t try to find me. I can’t believe you. Did you not care?”

 

“Dean, I-”

 

“Wait, this is Sam? The little brother that left?” Cas is stepping out and around, twirling the angel blade absently as he muses, “I don’t know why I thought he would look like you.”

 

This coming from the guy that’s related to Balthazar. They’re virtually polar opposites.

 

Sam’s head is tilted to the side. It’s obvious that he’s looking at Cas’s soul. His eyes are wide, like saucers. “Who wants to know?”

 

“Nobody,” Dean snaps as Cas tilts his head and at the same time says. “Castiel.”

 

Dean looks up at the ceiling and curses his luck. He’s going to have a serious talk with the kid about giving out real names. Cas should know better.

 

“Ookay,” Sam says.

 

Sam snaps his fingers, and they’re standing in a backyard. Cas is holding Dean’s shoulder a hair too tight and muttering under his breath about ‘fucking angels and their goddamn air travel. a little warning wouldn’t kill anybody.’  Dean is looking around at the house and the neighborhood.

 

With an actual white picket fence.

 

There’s a deep purple clematis climbing up the porch railing along the far side of the house. Oak trees litter the edge of the yard. The plants are green and lush and vibrant. The house itself is a two story, with a wraparound deck. The shutters are blue, Dean distantly notes.

 

They look good with the siding. Everything just ...goes together.

 

“Where the hell..”

 

Sam stands in the backyard.

 

Cas is staring. There's a woman swinging a small child up into her arms. She turns and smiles at Sammy.

 

Dean's heart drops out somewhere between her glance and the way the little boy turns huge hazel eyes up, and grins. Like Sam is his everything. Like he's been waiting.

 

"Daddy!!" He shouts, and lifts his arms.

 

"Oh, shit." Cas says quietly.

 

Dean couldn’t agree more.

 

"Dean, this is Jess."

 

Like Dean needed an introduction. Like Dean didn't know that this was Jessica. An angel that Sam had been commissioned to find and execute for disobedience when Lucifer pulled his bullshit.  Like Dean hadn’t scoured the globe with an eye out for her -and every other angel that went missing- just in case.

 

He should have known. He should have figured it out, put the puzzle pieces together to make the whole picture.  It's so obvious. It almost hurts to think about. Sam with a child.

 

No, wait, hold the phone. Sam with a child.

 

"Sam, you didn't..." Dean is looking at the boy with hesitant eyes. With worried glances. One word is resonating in the back of his mind. A few battles, the blood staining every angel's hands, and their blades in Heaven after that last order.

 

Nephilim.

 

"Dean, this is Ariel." Sam shakes his head. "Ariel, this is your Uncle Dean. Say 'hello'.'

 

"'Lo." Ariel says, suddenly shy. He can't be more than four, hiding his face only halfway behind Sam and his wings so he can still peek out at the newcomers.

 

He has white-gold wings, not on this plane, of course. They're beautiful, stunning. They stretch up over his shoulders to arch almost at the crown of his head. He has hair like Sam’s. Too long and floppy for his own good, always falling in his eyes.

 

Ariel is a fledgling, probably the last one. Ever.

 

It's like Dean is witnessing another miracle all over again. Like his Father extended a hand to his brother and let him have this one beautiful piece of Heaven without doing anything. Without strings attached.

 

Except, there are strings. Ariel has probably only been on Earth. He hasn’t played among the stars, in the Heavens. He hasn’t danced along the Garden and been chastised by Joshua for stepping on this plant or that root. He’s most likely grown up human, secluded from the supernatural if the way Sam is shielding him is anything to go by. And that, in and of itself, is a travesty.

 

"Hi, Ariel." Dean says, quietly.

 

Jess is crossing her arms, her wings are rippling behind her. The feathers are trying to realign themselves.

 

"Sam," She warns. "Are you going to invite them in?"

 

Sam turns, and the smile he directs to her is so genuine it hurts to witness. "In a few minutes. Why don't you take Ariel inside?"

 

Jess pecks Sam on the cheek, and scoops Ariel out of his arms with a small smile. "C'mon kiddo. Let's go get some ice cream."

 

Sam, Dean, and Cas watch the two ascend the stairs to the porch, and then disappear inside the house. After the sliding glass door closes, Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

He turns to Sam, mouth set in a grim line.

 

He's not sure what to say. Not sure what there is to say. Does he have any idea what would happen to them if the angels were to find out about Ariel?

 

No wonder Dean couldn't find him.

 

"He's not Nephilim."

 

"That was real?" Cas asks.

 

"Uh, yeah. Not one of our finer moments.” Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “Sam, how-”

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, you see, Dean, when two angels really love each other...”

 

“You just left,” Dean raises his voice over Sam’s sarcasm. “And started a family? I don’t understand. That’s- It’s a human thing to do, Sam. Angels don’t, we don’t do that.”

 

“Reproduce? Well, maybe they should start.”

 

They. As if Sam isn’t an angel that sang with the Host and slept in the Fields and worshipped at the Throne.

 

Sam runs frantic hands through his hair and points with one hand towards the house. “I have a job. I have meetings and clients. I’m a lawyer, Dean. Jess stays home with Ariel and takes care of him. I’m part of a golf team of all things.” He drops his hand. “I knew you were looking for me, but we weren’t ready to give this place up yet.”

 

Dean finds that hard to believe. “Oh yeah? Well what about the other hundreds of years I spent trying to figure out what happened to you, huh? You ran away. What was I supposed to do?”

 

The first touch of Sam’s Grace is like a jolt to his system. Like someone set a live wire to his chest. It’s an intimate thing to share, like this, with another angel. Dean hasn’t done anything like it in thousands of years. Not since Sam left. The closest thing he’s had to replicate it is the light from Cas’s soul, and even then it’s more of a photosynthesis sort of thing. Cas is the acting sun, shining bright and brilliant, and Dean moves toward it, circles around the warmth and the light.

 

Like a moth to a flame, but it’s only glances. Touching a soul is dangerous for both parties. Dean would never try it unless he had no other choice.

 

So what Sam’s doing right now? It’s invigorating, but the longing seeping through is tempering it.

 

Dean brushes his own Grace back against Sam’s, and then he’s reaching out, reaching for Sam. They end up hugging, just like that last day. Bittersweet and tight. And then Sam opens up a link and shows him. It wasn’t just Dean searching for him and Jess. It wasn’t just the light that wanted to know what had happened. The dark was hunting for him as well.

 

“Demons.” Dean pulls back and frowns. “I don’t get it. What would they want with you.”

 

“I don’t know. I never stuck around long enough to find out.”

 

Jess starts calling from the house, and then there’s ice cream and sprinkles and Ariel laughing.

 

Dean is pretty sure he’s in shock, but he takes his ice cream and he flies Cas back to the motel. And when Cas asks if he wants to lay down, and pulls up the covers in a clear invitation, Dean doesn’t argue. He climbs into bed and listens to Cas breathe from the other pillow, deep and even, and he falls asleep.

  
  


He wakes up in a room.

 

Well. Sort of.

 

It’s more like an office. A really bright, minimal, something-isn’t-right, office. There’s a desk, and a few chairs, but nothing else. He’s dressed in his suit and tie that he’s almost positive he left folded neatly on the chair and table back at the motel.

 

And then Zachariah is there, and nothing can be good about this place.

 

“Dean, Dean, Dean. Been a long time.”

 

“Yeah. You look douchey as ever.” Dean glances around pointedly. “Where the hell are we.”

 

Zachariah opens his arms, his grin is almost feral. “Heaven.”

 

Huh. That’s interesting. Looks more like office hell. Everything is lined up neat and orderly. It’s all clean lines and Dean sort of wants to smash Zach’s face into the picture window to their left.

 

Hard.

 

"What do you want."

 

"Just a little chat between friends." Zachariah circles the desk and gestures at the chair. "Sit, we're friends here."

 

Friends. Yeah, right.

 

Dean hasn't been friends with any angel except for Bobby and Rufus for a long time. Centuries. Millenia almost. He’s barely back from talking with Sam, and he wouldn’t even call that a friendship. Tentative, maybe. This dick? Yeah, that would be a negative.

 

"I’m gonna take a pass on that. See you, oh yeah, never."

 

"Not so fast, Dean-o. Sit tight for a few minutes. You might want to listen to what I have to say."

 

Dean highly doubts it. He doesn't want to listen to any of Zach's bullshit when Cas is in the middle of something, a hunt, and Dean has this itch between his shoulder blades like something is about to go down. Something big.

 

"He's going to do it to himself, you know."

 

"Who?" Dean demands, but he already knows the answer. It's sitting right in front of him in the way Zach shakes his head and smiles condescendingly,

 

"You're joking, right? An angel like you, even for a Seraph, that's pretty stupid. I mean," Zach punches out a laugh. "It's fairly obvious. Who else?"

 

"Who else, what." Dean growls. He's so tired of this whole game. Zach needs to spit his shit out already and get this over with. He ends up with a hand around Zach's throat, pushing him against the stained wall. "Get down to the brass tacks, Zach. Who is doing what."

 

"The Righteous Man," Zach grins again, pushes back, "is going to break the last seal."

 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Newsflash, genius. I already knew that."

 

"The last seal that breaks starts the Apocalypse. It starts the whole chain." Zach's teeth are so fucking white. "He's going to let Lucifer free.”

 

“I don’t know where the hell you’re going with this, but the whole evil monologue thing? It’s getting old real quick.”

 

Zachariah laughs. “Straight to Hell, that’s where he’s going!” He shoves at Dean, hard, and snaps his fingers as fire licks up around Dean. He just barely has enough time to draw his wings into himself. “He’s going to sell his soul and you’re going to let it happen.”

 

Dean reels back, both hands clenched at his sides. The itch is growing now into something else. Something painful. Between his shoulders is a knot of tension and it's getting worse the more Zach talks. "What the fuck are you talking about. Cas is supposed to help Michael take Lucifer down. He can’t go to hell. That's...that's..."

 

"The plan. The prophecy, don't you see?"

 

Dean really doesn't.

 

"Two brothers." Zach straightens his suit. "Michael, loyal to an absent father. Lucifer, rebellious to a fault. One is cast down into the Pit. The Righteous Man always had to break the last seal there, because that’s where Lucifer is. One of the vessels had to make the trip. We had the chance, and we took it. It's perfect. Almost like," he smiles again. "God's plan, or something."

 

"You mean to tell me," Dean starts forward again, and then realizes he can’t step out of the circle of holy fire. "That Balthazar is Lucifer's vessel? That they're going to have to fight each other?" Dean shakes his head. "You can't be serious. There has to be another way. A shortcut. The collateral damage on Earth would be tremendous. The angels would end up killing-"

 

"Thousands." Zachariah shrugs. "Millions, maybe. You’re missing the point. This is the shortcut.”

 

"You want this to happen." Dean accuses. "You want the Apocalypse?"

 

"Heaven on Earth, Dean. You're an angel, isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you crave?" Zach shakes his head. "You've been on that rock too long, son. Your head has started to go funny. Too close with the mud monkeys for your own good. We should send you down to IT to have a look after this guardian nonsense is done with. Make sure that you're in tip top shape for the final showdown. Wouldn't want anybody to be lagging behind, now would we?"

 

"And what if he doesn’t win, hm? What if Lucifer takes over? You're sick, and you can't keep me here." Dean says, he spreads his wings. It’s just a dream; if he can focus on it, then he can get out. He can get back to Cas. He closes his eyes and pictures the motel room and the peeling wallpaper and Cas’s boots at the end of the bed. He reaches for the link, strong and unique to the man snoring next to him and..

 

He’s still stuck in the office clenching his fists. Stuck.  "This is bullshit, let me out."

 

"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast." Zach snaps his fingers, and suddenly the ring is smaller. Dean is even more restricted. "Wouldn't want you to ruin the opening act, now. We're just getting started."

  


Cas dreams of green wings and soft flutters. He used to be able to see them when he was tiny. He remembers large feathers encompassing him. Caressing him while a deep voice sang something in a different, old language. He dreams of comfort, and closeness.

 

It's a beautiful dream. It's perfect, until the fire starts.

 

It's hot, too warm, and too bright. Oranges and yellow and red. It's too much too fast.

 

Balthazar is in his arms, and he's crying. Cas shushes him over and over but nothing helps. Nothing quiets him. Cas wishes his mother was there.

 

His dad tells him to run as fast he can, through the front door, he tells him not to look back, never look back.

 

Cas doesn't. He listens, he's good at following orders, he wants his father to be proud.

 

He prays for Dean. He prays for his angel, he prays for black and green feathers and warmth that's right and good and light that looks like love and Heaven. Cas is only four, but he wants Dean to save him and his family like he wants his favorite toy and his best blanket. Dean is his best thing, besides Balthazar, and Cas wants him there with him in the yard. He's scared, terrified that his parents might not make it out, and he wants Dean to be there to help and to save them.

 

It's painful, the smoke and the fire lick at his feet and his skin, and then he is in the cool wet grass, and the blades remind him of Dean, and the beautiful way that he flies. He prays harder, yelling as the sirens scream over him. He clutches Balthazar to his chest and starts to cry.

 

Cas always wakes up before Dean gets there, sweeping him into his arms, and hushing his four-year old self and Balthazar. Turning his head into Dean’s shoulder as Dean tells him that he’s okay, that everything will be fine.

 

But not this time. This time Dean doesn’t fix anything and Cas doesn’t wake up.

 

This time Dean is stuck in the house with Jane. Cas watches the flames claw at his angel.

 

Dean screams, brokenly, but he’s trapped, and Cas can’t get to him.

 

He wakes up sweating and sticking to the sheets and the mattress and his pillows. The motel smells like fire and ash for the rest of the night, like always. Cas is so tired of it, so worn down from everything with his father and Balthazar, that he tries to go back to sleep and banish the memories.

 

They don't go. They never do.

 

And the bed is empty, which is strange, because Dean was just here with him, wasn’t he?

 

Cas sits up and looks around and Dean’s jacket and his dress shirt are still draped over the table. There’s an imprint on his side of the bed; the blankets are mussed, so he must not have left long ago. Cas checks the bathroom, but that’s empty.

 

He calls for Dean after an hour. It's three in the morning, and something doesn’t feel right. The fire in the nightmare stands out, fierce and angry,.

 

"Dean."

 

He knows the bastard is listening; it's part of the whole guardian business.

 

That's when he remembers that Balthazar is supposed to be staying with him, in the bed next to his. And Balthazar isn't there. Isn't anywhere, in the bathroom or the small kitchenette of the motel room. He's missing. His boots and his coat are gone too.

 

He was supposed to come back after his appointment at the local college.

 

"Huh." Cas says, mostly to himself, although sometimes he talks to Dean. Prays, sort of. Dean is like an extension of himself sometimes. Like Dean is always there, but not.

 

There’s an itch building under his skin. Something’s not right. The bond is too quiet, too still.

 

"Dean, I think something is happening. It might be a good idea to flutter in from wherever you're at. Please." Cas tacks on the end, because it never hurts to be polite with an angel, even if he doesn't bother most of the time.

 

Dean could be in the middle of something, although what, Cas doesn't know. Sam is back; maybe Dean decided they should catch up, and isn't that something to think about. Dean with a brother that doesn't want to hunt him or kidnap him or carry him off to be reevaluated and changed into the rest of the robot angels. It's weird how amazing Dean is. How strange and wonderful and odd.

 

He's human, like Sam in a way, even if he does smite like a bastard, and carry that sword around like he was made to do it. Cas can't help but wonder where he would be without Dean, without his angel perched on his shoulder.

 

He supposes he would be right about where Balthazar is, wherever he ended up.

 

It's a shame. ‘Zar is good, inherently. Cas knows it. Can feel it in everything he is. And yet.

 

He makes choices he shouldn't, chooses paths that lead down dark alleys and around sharp corners. He pushes the limits, always. ‘Zar knows just which buttons to push to set someone off, and ruin everything.

 

Or turn it on it's head.

 

He's strong, undoubtedly so, and faithful to a fault.

 

But Cas doesn't know him much anymore. Sure he still likes the same thing on his burger, and kept the ability to cultivate a love affair with every woman in the county, but what else is there?

 

Balthazar must have decided to walk home.

 

Cas finds him across the road from the motel, not forty feet away from where Cas was sleeping, lying on the ground across the railroad tracks. His wallet is torn on the ground not far away.

 

It’s empty, and Cas wants to laugh because out of everything that could have killed them -vampires and wendigos and spirits and demons and goddamn angels-  a petty thief is what finally does it.

 

His body is bloody and broken when Cas finally gets to it. Balthazar is just barely breathing against his shoulder, raggedly. Cas holds him tighter, yells with his everything for Dean.

 

He grabs the bond violently from where it’s been lying in his chest, easy and lax, and he pulls. He doesn’t have much control over what he does with it, but he tries to send everything through their link. Cas is frantic.

 

But Dean never comes, and even though Cas promises that he’s going to fix his brother, it’s okay, Balthazar, it’s just a scratch, i’ll fix you up myself, it’s too late.

  


The scene at the Roadhouse is silent. Jo doesn’t know what to say to him. She stands just outside the door in teary silence. Aunt Ellen keeps telling him to come out of the room and let them finish it so they can bury him.

 

Cas can’t straighten up from leaning his head on his arms on the edge of the bed where Balthazar is laying. He won’t let them take him. He won’t let them put him six feet under. He won’t let them burn him in fire and salt and write his name in stone. He won’t.

 

It’s his job to watch out for his baby brother, and he’s been failing, miserably, since the day he was born. Cas wishes he could feel something other than the crushing loss that fills him. He misses Balthazar's quick laugh and his easy jokes. His hope that everything will work itself out.

 

“You can’t leave me.” Cas whispers to the damp sheets. He doesn’t remember when he started crying, but now he can’t stop. It’s like a floodgate was opened and everything from the last four years is pouring out. “We were just starting to find each other. I can’t lose you again.”

 

The angels can’t have him. Not yet.

  


There’s a way.

 

Cas has read about deals that fulfilled your every whim. Your deepest desire. Balthazar prided himself on the research of every hunt. Every monster. Getting to the bottom of each problem and unearthing whatever was behind it.

 

He isn’t the only one who did his research.

 

Cas tears through the back seat of the mustang and their duffels, until he finds the book. The journal.

 

His eyes are dry and rough when he searches the pages.

 

He buries the old, tattered box under several handfuls of dirt. He scuffs the toes of his boots in the crossroads, trying to decide if this is actually going to happen. If the demon will really show. If he's actually going to sell his soul.

 

He hopes it will happen; he can't go on like this. It's insanity. He'd rather put a bullet in his brain and be done with it, damn Dean, wherever the hell he fucked off to. Cas can’t bury his brother. Can’t stick him in the cold ground, and cover him over. He doesn't need the angels and he doesn't need God.

 

He just needs his brother, or his .45. Those are the choices. If he can't have the first, then he'll have the second.

 

"Castiel. I would say this is a surprise, but it really isn't. What can I do-"

 

"You know what I want." Cas says. "You know what I'll trade."

 

"Your brother." The demon sighs. She's gorgeous, dark hair, brown eyes. Her dress is black silk. Cas wonders what the Pit looks like. He wonders what she really looks like. What Dean sees when he burns them out. Is it a face with horns like the pictures he's seen in Ellen's library? Or is it different? “Balthazar.”

 

Are they really smoke, or is it just a mirrors game?

 

"Yes."

 

He doesn't know why they're playing this game; he supposes it's just like every other gamble. Like every other deal. There has to be some sort of dickering between the two before they can shake hands and get on with it.

 

Cas just wants it to be over. He wants her to seal the deal already. He wants Balthazar back, and he wants him now.

 

It feels darker, even though it's midnight and there's no moon in the sky. The black of the sky darkens impossibly. It's ominous, or something. Dean would probably know.

 

He's going to be furious with Cas once he finds out, it's only a matter of time. He’s always said that Cas has been more of a danger to himself, than anything else. That if he had just glued himself to Castiel’s side, nothing bad would happen, because Dean could just tell him ‘no’.

 

Cas remembers that he doesn’t give a fuck about Dean.

 

"Six months." She says, and Cas doesn't even bother to argue with her. Bargaining seems pointless at this juncture.

 

"Fine." He would've agreed to ten days. One week. Whatever it took. Whatever the price, she knows he’s willing to pay up.

 

"We kiss on it."

 

"Fine." Cas says again, like it doesn't even matter, because it doesn't. Nothing does, except getting Balthazar back. He was supposed to be watching him, supposed to watch out for little brother, and now it's finally happening.

 

They kiss and it's everything and nothing like Cas thought it would be. It's like kissing an ashtray full of sulfur and tar. It's sticky and it tastes like hazelnut and ash combined. It's nothing like kissing a human.

 

It's nothing like he imagined when he pictures kissing Dean, but that's besides the point.

 

Angels probably taste like mint or lollipops or some dumb shit. Cas isn't about to worry about it. Dean can go fuck himself after this, can go straight to hell for all Cas cares. As long as Balthazar is alive, breathing, kicking, screaming, whatever, he'll be just fine with what happens in the end.

 

He'll go to Hell for his brother; it's a fact, now.

 

The demon is gone before he knows what hit him, and he's left alone with shaking hands and a cellphone; he's dialing Aunt Ellen before he even knows what's happening.

 

It's a miracle, Jo is saying, yelling about Dean and what he did.

 

When Aunt Ellen takes up the phone she seems to hear something in his voice that says things didn't go anything like that. She sounds worried. She asks, what did you do, son?, like there's going to be an answer at the end that she knows she isn't going to approve of. Like she's already planned his punishment, her retaliation.

 

Balthazar is awake, confused, and he's alive and it worked.

 

He doesn't need Dean after all.

 

Except he sort of does.

 

As painful as it is, he wants Dean there for this. Wants Dean's solid weight behind his, gripping his shoulder like he always is. Like he was when Balthazar announced he was going to college and held out an acceptance letter for Cas to look at and fawn over.

 

Dean was there when Jane went up in fire and flame. Dean was there after Balthazar got on the bus and drove away. He was there when Chuck decided it was best for them to go their own ways, more ground to cover, more booze to drink, that way.

 

Dean is always there, they’re one and the same. One twisted around the other, tangled and muddled.

 

Except now he isn't, and they aren’t, and Cas doesn't know what he's going to do next. So he sits in the dirt of the crossroads, snaps his phone shut elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and he tries not to cry very hard at all. He tries to hold it together even as he's falling apart, because it's all he can do.

 

It's all he's ever done.

  


One moment and Dean is standing in an office staring Zachariah down and wishing to scream with the ache of the bond on his Grace, and the next he’s standing in front of Balthazar outside of the motel room.

 

“You’re..” Dean moves one hand to Balthazar’s forehead, and the other to his shoulder to steady him. He checks everything. Everywhere. And he’s.. “You’re fine.”

 

“I’m fine.” Balthazar repeats, but he’s got this look about him. Wild and ready to fly apart at the seams. “Something is wrong with Cas. Dean, please. He won’t let us in. He’s locked the door and he won’t-”

 

Dean hasn’t seen Balthazar like this since Chuck left the first time. Since he was still a kid, lost and clinging to Cas’s belt loops trying not to cry. His eyes are straying from Ellen and Jo, to the motel room door, and back to Dean. He’s unsteady, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head.

 

Dean hugs him, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because he can’t imagine Cas without ‘Zar again.

 

It had almost broken him last time.

 

Unfortunately, Dean knows one thing that Cas could have done to change everything. To turn the tables, and cheat Death.

 

And it’s been a long time since he’s been terrified, but he is, and it’s uncomfortable. It’s an itch under his wings, fluttering in his ribcage. The need to check on his charge. On the one thing he was supposed to guard and protect and keep safe.

 

“Okay. Okay, ‘Zar, you gotta go with Ellen now.”

 

“But-” Balthazar starts to protest, and Dean grabs his shoulders.

 

“No. I’ll have him call you. We’ll figure this out. You trust me, don’t you?”

 

He looks skeptical, but Dean doesn’t take any offense. He knows all about having a brother. About how much disquiet twists around inside you when something could be wrong. About how you want nothing more than to reach out and try to set everything to rights with every fiber of yourself.

 

But the bond is singing with something Dean is trying not to look at too closely, too soon. He can only deal with one Edlund brother in distress, and even though he loves Balthazar like his own family; reckless, intelligent, brilliant Balthazar, Dean needs to be with Cas right now.

 

Selfish? Yeah, probably.

 

“I trust you.”

 

“Good.” Dean says, “Go with Ellen, and I’ll have Cas call you tomorrow.”

 

After the car pulls away, and turns at the stop sign, Dean spreads his wings.

 

He’s tempted to avoid this whole mess, because something big definitely happened while he was being detained in that office. It would be so easy to walk away and sever the link.

 

A lesser angel would have. Or maybe a stronger one. Dean isn’t sure whether it makes him cowardly, or courageous to go to Cas.

 

It doesn’t really matter anyway. There isn’t another choice.

 

Dean’s been half in love with Cas since he grabbed at his feathers. He lands in the middle of the small room, and finds Cas with his head in his hands on the edge of the nearest bed. There’s a half empty bottle of whiskey on the floor next to his feet, and the TV is turned up so loud, Dean can hardly hear himself think.

 

But it all tunes itself out when he glances at the bright spot of Cas’s soul, and sees the mark.

 

The normal blue tinged light looks like it’s been branded. There’s a black thread looped around, over, and through the light.

 

Dean deflates instantly, because he has proof now. it’s not just a terrible thought Zachariah planted, lingering in the recesses of his mind. It’s not just a nightmare that Dean can shrug off.  He can see it, feel it, touch it. It happened and it’s real, and there’s no immediate loophole here. No sweet shortcut around the deal that Cas made.

 

He’s paralyzed. His Grace lets out a soulcry that his brothers and sisters will feel no matter where they’re stationed.  Any demon within a hundred miles stops whatever they’re doing to run for cover, or abandon their vessel.

 

Sam reaches out with his own Grace, but Dean pushes his concern away. Gently.

 

As much as it pains Dean to understand what happened, it must be even worse for Cas.

 

And there should be words. There should be something he’s supposed to say. Words to soothe, to comfort, to soften the blow that Cas is struggling through.

 

There should be, but Dean can’t quite muster them. Can’t form them in his mouth, let alone in his mind. Cas is just looking at him now. He hasn’t said anything either, and Dean’s fairly sure he’s on the fast track to drunk.

 

Not that Dean blames him.

 

So instead of questioning or comforting, Dean goes the easy way out. Crosses the distance separating them, and kneels in front of Cas. Grasps the neck of the bottle and measures the liquid left with a quick swirl.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you plastered before.” High? Definitely. Cas loves recreational drugs like Dean loves pie. It’s an indulgence. But alcohol? Cas avoids it like the plague. Dean knows it’s because Chuck was drunk off his ass the night of the fire, because he can’t smell alcohol without remembering high flames and Balthazar screaming.

 

But they must be past that point of remembering if Cas has decided to get completely smashed.

 

Cas’s smile is sloppy, but open, and Dean’s glad he didn’t bother with the important things first because Cas probably couldn’t tell him what really happened right now even if he tried.

 

“I’m celebrating.”

 

Or...there’s that.

 

“...why?”

 

“He’s alive. You’re alive.” Cas shrugs his shoulders in a quick up and down motion. “I’m alive. For now.”

 

For now.

 

“Cas.”

 

And every trace of the goofy smile drips off his face when Dean meets his eyes, and shakes his head slowly.

 

Because this thing? This deal? Dean can’t just make it go away.

 

He’s an angel. But he’s only an angel.

 

Cas nods, once. Sharp. Understanding. The smile dies. He looks at the shitty wallpaper, and then the door to the bathroom.

 

He looks around and over Dean for a few minutes. Eyes darting to the shaded corners of the room; to Balthazar’s bed, and his backpack, to the stained carpet underneath his muddy boots and his duffel bag.

 

Dean watches him silently come undone until Cas reaches down and fists his hand in Dean’s tie and dress shirt like he used to when he was small. When the monsters were scary enough to call out for an angel on any day or night, not just Thursday.

 

Dean’s standing in less than a second. One hand on the back of Cas’s head, the other arm wrapped tightly around his neck to pull him in. Into his chest. Into his arms. Into his wings.

 

“What was I supposed to do?” Cas is shaking, probably crying, but he keeps one hand twisted and tangled around the silk of the red tie as the feathers envelop him. “You were gone, and I just couldn’t leave him.”

 

Dean runs a hand through his hair and tries to keep his voice quiet, on the edge of unwavering. Tucks Cas even closer. “Hey, none of that.” Rocks him the way he used to years ago. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

And after Cas finally drifts off. After Dean strips him to shorts and an old shirt and folds him into the cheap blankets. Dean lays on the other side of the tiny bed, arm stretched out, hand cupping Cas’s cheek. He presses a kiss to Cas’s forehead as the sun rises, and prays for the first time in hundreds of years.

 

He prays for guidance, for clarity. He prays for a solution or an answer that never comes.

  


Dean goes the only other place he can think of.

He flies to Bobby.

The older angel has always been particularly fond of a Friday evening of an old mechanic. Its a nice loop of a family dinner and late night TV.  Beer and ice cream and popcorn and good natured yelling about baseball.

It’s wonderful, if Dean’s going to be completely honest.

If Dean didn’t have his own heaven on earth, he’d be tempted to hang around here for a few centuries.

As it is, Bobby mostly sits in the old library and reads and listens to the background noise. The books here are full of untold treasures.  There’s a different wealth of knowledge lurking in the old man’s bookshelves, untapped and ready for the taking.

Bobby has access to things most angels don’t.

Tonight, though, he’s sitting at the desk pouring two glasses of something amber colored. He’s shaking his head like he already knows what’s coming. Like Dean doesn’t have to say anything for Bobby to understand that he just left Cas in a warded place after he’d sold his soul.

So Dean stays silent.

He slumps in the chair directly across from the desk and loosens the still damp tie around his neck. When Bobby pushes a glass over, across the desk and the shuffle of aged paper, Dean doesn’t even hesitate to grab for it.

They don’t say anything for at least an hour, although time moves differently in heaven, not much time has passed on earth.

The game in the background gets more heated and the sons start and finish yelling at the 1960 Yankee’s game like they always do before Dean finally speaks.

"He made a deal."

"Of course he did." Bobby leans in his chair and rolls his eyes. “Its been foretold since the beginning of the end, Dean. We were both there for the prophecy. ‘And as he breaks, so shall it break.’  Maybe the details were a little fuzzy, but you didn’t think you could skirt around Fate, didya?"

"Fate is a bitch." Dean muses.

Because, well, she is.

And, honestly, Dean never thought it would come to this. The entire battle between Michael and Lucifer always seemed like something in the far distant future. Something on the horizon that had to happen eventually, but wasn’t here, or now. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

And if Dean had pushed the final boxing match with his brothers as the starring roles to the back of his mind, then he had definitely tried to completely ignore the idea that Cas would need to ‘break’ over anything. He never thought the prophecy meant Hell, who would? It’s just as easy to break a sigil or a bond than a seal. The seals are in place for a reason. Break the seals, and release Lucifer.

Dean had always assumed that Lucifer would stay in the cage until Michael was ready for him. Until Michael had deemed it finally time and asked for the Righteous Man to be brought forward to be used to wield the sword.

Apparently, he didn’t read the fine print well enough. Now Fate is going to bite him, and Cas, in the ass. It sucks.

"Regardless. She’s not going to bend the rules just because you think the Righteous Man doesn’t deserve to go to Hell. She has her marching orders. No exceptions. Do ya remember anything I taught ya?"

"There has to be something. Damn it, Bobby, I can’t just stand by and let the hounds take him."

Bobby is quiet for a beat. "You don’t have much of a choice, son.”

"Then what the hell is the point of all this? Huh?" Dean leans forward dangerously in his rickety chair. It almost tips over and dumps him on his ass before he rights himself and starts pacing. It’s a nervous habit he’s picked up from Cas. It’s annoying and terrible and comforting for some reason he’s yet to identify. If he looks too close at anything with Cas the colors get all messy and mixed, oceans and blood and seaweed all muddled together. “Why protect him for twenty-six years? Why make the bond with him? Why entrust him to a Guardian? What is the goddamn point," Dean spits. “If he’s just going to hell anyway?"

“You know what they say. God works.."

Dean stills. "If you say ‘in mysterious ways,’ so help me, I will kick your ass."

 

Bobby holds his hands high in surrender. “Listen, kid. I don’t make the rules. Lord knows I don’t always adhere to the system, but this is one time where it might be best to just go with the flow, so to speak."

"Let Cas go to hell. You can’t be serious. There’s gotta be another way. A loophole or an opt-out clause in the contract. Something."

They’re both silent for several minutes as Dean paces and Bobby pours more whiskey into both tumblers.

“You were the loophole, Dean. You were just supposed to postpone his death until it was time for him to die. Until everything was in place for him to break the seal.”

“And now what.

Bobby shrugs. "Now we wait."

“Six months.” Cas says to his plate of eggs. They’re back at the Roadhouse; Jo and Aunt Ellen opened the doors just for them to sit and talk and greet Balthazar. Cas had clung to his little brother for a long time  Six months seems like a short amount of time. That’s all he wanted, but he’s not going to tell Balthazar that. Not going to explain that to start a family or try and act normal for more than a few months would be torture. “It gives us enough time to wrap up a few cases, get you settled in the house-”

“Cassie, what are you talking about? We have to find a way out of the deal.”

“There isn’t a way out.”

Cas can’t look at Dean. He’s keeping his eyes firmly on the plate in front of him.

He was drunk last night; he’s hungover this morning. Things were different.

Cas had forgotten how incredibly pissed off he is at Dean for not answering. For not caring that Balthazar was gone. For not listening. For not helping when Cas knows full well that he could have.

His anger is bubbling up and over and it’s all he can do to keep his hands on the table, and not start swinging just because Dean is sitting next to him. And the worst part is, that Dean knows what he’s feeling. The pesky little bond allows him to feel the frustration and fury rolling off of him in waves.

“We’ll hunt until then. Try to get as many big bads out of the way as we can. Maybe find Dad. Then we’ll get you settled at home, get you a job-”

“I’ve already tried that, Cassie,” Balthazar says. “It’s not what I want.”

“Humor me. I’m not going to be on this Earth much longer. The least you can do is pretend to go along with my ideas.”

Dean starts, “Cas, you-”

“Dean.” He’s surprised by his own tone and how angry he sounds. He drops it down a few notches. His next words are quieter more reserved. Shaky, even. “I want you out of my sight for the foreseeable future.”

There’s a tense, unbroken silence. Something like hurt and unease and heavy remorse pulses along the link from Dean’s end, and he quickly snaps it off. Shuts it down.

Cas knows what it means. They’ve had a few disagreements in the past. Little spats that never lasted more than a few hours where Dean watched him silently from a distance.

It hurts more than he thought it would when Dean nods and disappears, not even thinking twice about the people in the diner.

Cas rubs at his chest absently as he talks to Jo. Balthazar keeps giving him small, pitying glances. Cas tells him to save it.

They hunt, and it’s not terrible.

Cas scours newspapers and online articles. He listens to Aunt Ellen. They take care of a curse, two witches with nothing better to do than hex passers-by, and three restless spirits. Balthazar sings and a partridge in a pear tree after he lists them off to Jo. It earns him a grin.

He goes to bars, and listens to stories with Balthazar. They dress up in crisp suits and wrinkled ties and pretend. They fight the good fight, but it’s different this time around. No matter how many they save, someone’s already dead and buried in the cold ground. It makes them both feel useless, but Cas can’t imagine not hunting -it’s part of him, now- so they don’t stop. He watches his little brother drink and listens to him flirt and ask women back to their room. It’s his way of coping, Cas thinks. He doesn’t begrudge him any comfort. If Balthazar is stronger and more settled in the morning, more focused on the case and the questions, then so be it.

Cas sleeps in the cramped back seat of the Mustang.

The first night is comfortable; the back seat is like his first home. His best home. Reliable and solid, it smells like old leather and his dad. Not like the uniform bleach the motels use to clean everything.

The sixth night, the streetlamp that stretches over the other side of the road is a little too bright. It shines right in the driver’s side window. And there’s this noise, scuffing or scratching, that is beyond annoying.

Cas is ninety percent sure that the monster of the week is a wendigo, and therefore probably not scuffing his boots outside the car waiting for a quick snack to wake up.

Cas shuffles a little underneath his jacket, and turns on his side. Raindrops start to patter against the windshield.

It’s been two months since that day in the diner (four months left, his mind whispers, just four), but he’s positive he isn’t alone. He might have grown out of seeing black wings hued with green. He might be too world weary to foster the innocence required to see and touch them. But he knows the way Dean feels when he’s hiding, when he’s trying not to be caught. The link isn’t as quiet as Dean thinks it is.

“Dean.” Cas says to his pillow, the ratty thing that hangs out in the trunk for nights on the road, and special occasions. “Don’t lurk outside the car. Not in the rain.”

He doesn’t, not for long.

Dean opens the rear passenger door and slips in instead of zapping. The street light dims as Cas sits up, and then lays back down on Dean’s lap this time. Curled into him, around him. Cas throws one arm around Dean’s waist and buries his face in dress shirt and the soft space around Dean’s middle. He breathes in fresh rain and down feathers and breathes out his previous discomfort. 

He doesn’t say it, but maybe he doesn’t need to. Dean knows they’ve both been dealt a shitty hand. If anybody gets it, Dean does. He holds him closer, and sighs quietly back, like this is a burden that he can hardly bear on top of what he’s already carrying.

But they’re better. Dean gave Cas the space he needed to cool off, to work through it. And maybe after all their time together, that’s all they needed.

“Where?” Dean whispers. It’s a game -an old one- they used to play when he was just a kid. He’s been to the Pyramids, and a few rainforests like this. To the top of volcanoes, and the bottom of rivers. Mount Everest was frigid and it stole his breath like a clever thief when Dean nudged his shoulder and toed the edge. Those parts were the best of the dreams. Dean watching him with rapt fascination as he discovered a new wonder. Dean urging him to look over into the Grand Canyon as the sun set. Dean egging him on to take a swim in the Nile. Dean has always been the warmth in his life, besides Balthazar. The one bright spot in his dark and to think he’s been wasting their last few months together. Cas gets choked up just thinking about it. He has to take a breath, and watch the rain patter against the roof.

It’s an apology. It’s an offer that Cas can’t refuse.

He thinks about what he wants until the feeling spreads through the bond. Spills over.

Cas falls into sleep and he dreams of Dean wading through knee-high four leaf clovers, covered in sunlight, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing dark jeans, and a blue shirt. The tension has bled out of his shoulders, and his head is tipped back. A pair of aviators sit on the top of his head. The sky is so clear, there isn’t a cloud in sight.

The mustang is sitting on the side of a deserted road. It’s gleaming in the light, the windows rolled down. It’s been washed and waxed and it looks brand new. Cas is holding the keys.

When Dean holds out a hand Cas laces their fingers together and follows him.

  


“Death?”

“Death.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

Dean sighs, and leans back until he’s staring up at the ceiling. “It’s worth a shot.”

“I made a deal with a demon, Dean. The other angels are banking on me breaking this seal. This isn’t negotiable.”

Dean makes a soft noise in his throat, but he doesn’t look away. “There has to be another way.”

There isn’t.

Dean and Balthazar research behind his back. Cas knows, because every time he asks what they’ve accomplished at the library or the local college, they both mumble and stutter until they come up with something.

They’re shitty liars, and Cas knows all their tells.

But he doesn’t bother arguing after the first few botched attempts because it isn’t worth it. They each think they have leads on circumventing the deal.

Cas doesn’t want anyone to save him. He doesn’t want Balthazar to end up dead, or worse, damned, because he was trying to dodge his fate. And he doesn’t want Dean to Fall just because his charge made a foolish choice.

He’s made a sick sort of peace with it, even if they haven’t. Balthazar is in complete denial. He won’t take Cas’s advice about the mustang or the house. He won’t listen to anything Cas says that starts with ‘when I’m gone’.

Dean is a bit more realistic. He asks Cas, when they’re alone, if he wants to talk about it. About Hell. About what to expect. He’s an angel. He’s never taken a trip downstairs, but he’s got the major bullet points.

Part of Cas wants to know what he’s walking into. Balthazar is the one that believed in Heaven and Hell and God and goodness, but he’s always wondered. Is it really fire and brimstone? Will it really be forever? Will he become numb to it, eventually? How long will it take? Ten years? Twenty? A thousand?

Eternity?

He shakes his head, and continues rolling cigarettes at the table. The paper won’t lay right, and the tobacco doesn’t want to cooperate. He’s trying to still his shaking hands. A deep breath settles him again. Cross one bridge at a time, that’s what Jane had always said.

And there’s a bridge they need to cross, together, right now.

“You’ll watch out for ‘Zar, won’t you?”

“Cas.”

Dean is sitting in the chair across the table. His suit jacket is slung around the back, and his tie is undone. It’s been a long time since Cas watched him undo his collar and try to relax.

He isn’t relaxed now. He’s tense, drawn up, hands balled up into fists on the table. “I don’t know what will happen to me once you-” Dean cuts himself off with a wave of his hand, and then he covers his face.

Cas doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what Dean’s getting at. He’s afraid to find out. “...you’ll be fine. You’re an angel, Dean. You’ve wandered the earth for centuries before you met me. I’m just asking you for another fifty years or so. The years you would have given me.”

“You’re not going to Hell.” Dean says decisively. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Dean.”

“I’ll always watch over Balthazar, Cas. You know that.”

  


Cas dies on a Thursday.

The hounds drag his soul to the Pit while Dean covers Balthazar in the room of the house that they were supposed to be investigating. They were supposed to be checking out and saving the family.

Until Lilith showed up, and knocked everything off course. She takes Cas with barely a flick of her fingers and two hounds.

Dean should have known demons were to blame. He’s not sure how he missed it. The old nursery rhyme makes sense, if you think about it in context. The gate leads straight to Hell. Lilith just opened it. The other dead hunters served as bait. It was just a matter of time until they caught the right ones; the right pair.

After it’s over, after she leaves, Dean ends up with Cas’s head in his lap. He runs careful, shaky hands through his hair and closes his unseeing eyes. There’s a black hole opening up in the place under his ribs where the bond resided since Cas was born. It’s empty and dark and it hurts. The weight on his wings, something that had become a comfort and a blessing, turns dark and unhappy with failure.

Balthazar is wiping at his face with one hand, the other is fisted in Cas’s jacket. Dean can’t quite muster the energy to cry. It’s too much to think about and consider and plan.

The loss of his charge is like taking a blade to his heart of hearts; to his Grace. The silence of Castiel’s lifesong is deafening and it doesn’t matter how much he rocks him or how tightly he tries to hold on. Cas is already gone.

He’s already mourning for what he’s lost, and not just what he had.

What he could have had. Dean realizes that he’s missed out on an opportunity. Let it pass him by, slip away from him.

He realizes he never took the chance to tell Cas how much he loved him. How much more he wanted for him.

How much Dean wanted him. Needed him.

He’s lost the possibility of more. The idea of something blooming between them shatters like the vase Balthazar throws against the wall. Dean won’t get to kiss him, or hold him in his arms to hear his heartbeat. Dean won’t have Cas’s quick smile to fall back on when he’s feeling adrift.

Lilith leaves, and laughs at him.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he’s planning on hunting the bitch down once Cas is settled somewhere safe.

 

 

The streets of the alabaster City look just like Dean remembers, only larger. It’s been centuries since he’s walked past the Citadel. Everything is quiet when he walks through with Sam.

 

Dean strides into the Council chambers like he owns the place. Wings up and out, suit fresh and crisp.

 

Sam is next to him, his charcoal suit fits perfectly and his tie is a sunny yellow. Jess tied the knot and smoothed it down before they left.

 

Michael is standing next to Zachariah, hands folded behind his back.

 

And there's no point beating around the bush, because they all know why Dean is here. Why he's shown himself in the City for the first time in hundreds of years. Why Sam has finally come out of hiding and the streets are filled with whispers. It’s why they’re all gathered together.

 

"I formally request a Garrison for the deliverance of Castiel Mark Novak."

 

Michael is staring at him as if they’re strangers. As if he has no idea what Dean has just asked for. It's unnerving and Dean almost flinches from the hard look in his eyes. His voice is steel when he brings the hammer down.

 

"Your request is denied."

 

It doesn't shock Dean. It really shouldn't. The Council has never been a democracy. They don’t count votes and they don’t make exceptions. The emptiness in his chest opens up a little more, the black hole leeches the light from his Grace.

 

"Then let me go." Dean says seriously. He meets their eyes. Looks at Anael and Raphael and Michael. If they won’t give the task to anyone else, if they won’t allow him to take a garrison, then the very least they could do is allow Dean to go with their blessing. "You got what you wanted, he died and went to Hell. I’ve played my part in your stupid game. You don't need me anymore, and he doesn’t deserve to rot down there. Give the order, let me save him, it’s all I ask. Please."

 

"You know we can't do that Dean." Anna won’t look at him. She’s staring just over his shoulder at his wings, twitchy and darker than they’ve ever been.

 

"Why." Dean whispers. When no one will look at him or answer, he takes two steps forward and yells. "Why?"

 

It’s the wrong question in the wrong tone. It’s on the edge of subordination, and Michael’s expression turns furious. “It is not your place to ask why. It should be enough that we’ve made a decision.”

 

“You’re Attached to him,” Raphael chimes in as if he’s bored of the entire proceeding. “It would not take much to form a tie, and we can’t let that happen. When the Council is ready we will send a Garrison.”

 

Michael dismisses them and the Council files away.

 

After that there’s only one thing to do, really.

 

“This is a terrible idea.”

 

Dean knows. God help him.

 

He knew it was a bad plan when Bobby asked if he’d lost his mind during his last few years on Earth and shook his head. He knows that two angels don’t have a hope in a field of hopes on the goddamn Planet of Hope.

 

But Dean is not leaving Cas alone in Hell.

 

He can’t go back to Heaven and live with himself if Cas is on the rack. He can’t hide on Earth and pretend that he’s alright. He can’t forget the feel of Cas under his hands and wrapped around his Grace. Of Cas’s soft breath against his cheek in the early morning light.

 

He made a promise years ago. And even if it was just that, just the covenant, he wouldn’t go back on something he swore.

 

So, yeah. It’s a terrible idea. It’s crazy. Insane. That Death idea was pretty bad, but this is ten times worse. A hundred, even. Dean’s probably lost his mind.

 

But Dean is going with, or without Sam. He could lose his wings over this; they both could. They haven’t been ordered not to rescue, but Zachariah’s made it pretty clear that this option isn’t on the table for negotiation. Crystal clear that Cas is supposed to be saved, but only delivered right to Michael after he’s broken.

 

The angels are going to take him as soon as he gets off the rack.

 

They’re about to break the rules, so Dean gets it. Sammy might not want in. He’s got a mate, and a fledgling to look after, to protect and care for. Why risk that?

 

He’s better with Sammy at his side, always was, but Dean made up his mind the moment that the final light of Cas’s soul dripped from his hands. If he can’t rescue Cas, he’s going to die trying.

 

They’re standing at the Gates. The ones that separate Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. Dean thinks about standing here for thousands of years and never seeing Cas’s blue eyes again. Never watching him smiling and singing from the passenger’s side of his car with AC/DC blasting and the windows down.

 

Dean tosses his angel blade in the air, and catches it. “Are you coming on the Hell tour? Or not? Train’s leaving, Sammy.”

 

Sam must see something, because he materializes his own blade and steps up.

 

“I still think this is a terrible idea. There’s no way we can save Cas by ourselves. This plan of yours is too dependent on how much power we’ll have left. It’ll take..”

 

Dean grins, wide and bright, and opens his wings. “A miracle?” Cas has fought for humanity for years. He’s bled and broken and lost himself to save it. To save people. “If anyone deserves a miracle, it’s Cas.” He straightens his tie, and steps up to pull the handle on the Gate.

 

There are thousands of roads to Hell, paved with good intentions and terrible ideas.

 

“Here I come, baby.”

  


Cas has lost track of time.

 

At first, it was easy. There wasn’t anything else to do on the rack except scream, and count the seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Months.

 

Cas remembered one thing, and that was time.

 

Someone had told him to remember that time wasn’t the same. That time was important. That he shouldn’t break because there was time.

 

Cas can’t remember who that was, but he knows the voice was strong and soft at the same time. Cas knows the voice loved him. Cas says ‘no’, always refuses, because the voice sounded so hurt about it. So raw.

 

Cas knows Alastair only loves making him scream.

 

So he counts in the beginning.

 

But the days stretch on and on and on. Hell knows no end, it seems. And the voice becomes more like a faraway dream in a fairytale than anything else. Alastair is closer. Tangible and real in a way the voice isn’t.

 

Cas loses track.

 

He screams and one day in particular he cries because he can’t remember how long it’s been.

 

And Alastair knows, and won’t tell him.

 

“Fascinating.”

 

Cas thinks his guts are coming through his mouth. He’s positive that his blood is being poured into something, and that those aren’t even the worst things that will happen in the never ending loop that keeps playing.

 

He had thoughts about Hell before he ended up here. Believe it or not, Cas has read the Bible.

 

He assumed it was fire and heat. Flame that was supposed to purge everything. He remembers not asking the voice about it because he didn’t want to know; didn’t want the voice to have to do that.

 

But Cas never thought it would be cold. Never even crossed his mind that instead of fire and ash, he would be consumed by cold and ice. It compounds whatever Alastair is doing tenfold. A hundredfold.

 

It leaves him shaking and trembling. His body, or the approximation of what it was, is always on edge. There’s no break. No rest. Even when Alastair sets down his knife, the cold seeps in and finishes the job he started.

 

Slowly.

 

Or there’s another way.

 

There’s a creature with a podium made of bone and ice. He’s more smoke shrouded in black cloth than anything else. He has a large, leathery book spread open, and he doesn’t speak from it so much as whispers.

 

Alastair calls him Conscience, and grins maniacally as he waves his scalpel that way. One of Hell’s finest features, he says.

 

His whispers are different from the screams. They’re tailor-made for Cas, and Cas alone. He can hear them above the buzzing after Alastair decides to take a break, to leave his guts gaping out of his stomach and his ribs broken in small pieces.

 

Conscience whispers over and over and over, never moving from the podium, never looking anywhere but at the book.  His voice, ugly and incredibly soft, reasons that Cas belongs here. That he deserves it, that they all do. He tells Cas that no one is coming for him. That if he had just done as he was told, if he had just watched over Balthazar just a little better, kept a closer eye on him, this would never have happened. If he had been a better brother, a better son, he wouldn’t be here.

 

But he wasn’t, so he deserves everything Alastair is giving him. Every punishment, every slash of the knife. He’s earned it.

 

And he’s cried before, on the rack. tears freezing before they make it very far, but never like this. Because he’s forgotten, and now everything hurts even more. He doesn’t remember what the voice wanted, or why. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He doesn’t know if there’s an actual word called ‘hope’, or if he’s just dreamed that up. He can’t remember the reason that he kept saying ‘no’ every time Alastair asked that question. The one that would free him from the rack, but ruin him for eternity.

 

There’s a secret in his mind that Alastair has taken for himself. Cracked open his skull, rifled through the jumble of memory and tissue and mess until Cas couldn’t see or hear anymore. Alistair has opened the only box left and stolen the one thing Cas had been clinging to.

 

And Cas wants it back.

 

He can’t remember why he’s here. What he’s done to deserve this sort of fucking treatment. Oh, sure. He’s heard the stories around him.

 

Murderer.

 

Thief.

 

Adulterer.

 

But none of those sins seemed very... real, not until Conscience started in.

 

The thing that Alastair took was real, goddamn it, and now it’s gone. It doesn’t numb the screams anymore. It doesn’t whisper about safety and love and the promise of home. Of warmth and light and softness.

 

It’s gone.

  


The next time Alastair asks, Cas agrees.

 

Alastair hands him a knife. The handle is made of bone, twisted and curved just so to fit and fill his hand. The blade is eternally sharp, Cas knows. It will never grow dull; it will never not slice and cut and maim exactly as Cas envisions. It’s a beautiful piece of work. A perfect tool to create the ultimate masterpieces. Twisted remnants of souls.

 

Demons.

 

And he can’t help but feel like he’s failed someone, or something. Like he had made a promise that’s broken now.

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

Only the rack matters. And the screams.

 

Hell is everything Dean had dreamed up and more. It’s ice and fire. Lakes of the Lustful, hordes of the Greedy. Dante had some plot points right, but the majority of it is warped.

 

It’s also worse than anything Dean could have imagined.

 

Sure, angels have talked about it. Dean helped put Lucifer into the cage for Heaven’s sake, what feels like eons ago. He helped slam the bars shut, and twist the key in the lock.

 

But that was a long time ago.

 

Hell has gone downhill, which shouldn’t be funny, but it sort of is. It’s turned into something even worse than Dean thinks his Father had ever planned. It’s torturous, pure and simple. It’s evil writhing all over itself.

 

Demons are present in all stages. Some souls are just starting to turn; they don’t have horns or claws or hooves. Not yet, anyway. Some are strung up on the racks.

 

They haven’t been able to rest for days now; the last place they found was just outside a small village that had been entirely too silent for Dean, and for Sam. They take turns, alternating between sleeping, wings tangled, and keeping watch.

 

It’s Sam’s turn when he says it. His back is to Dean, wings spread wide as Dean runs his fingers through them. The feathers are thick and dark with soot. They’re weighted down and marred in places. Dean combs through them patiently, leaving as much of the dark colors as he can to keep them camouflaged. Cream white wings would be a dead giveaway in this place, in the smoke and the darkness. Sam sighs.

 

“You could just Tie, you know.”

 

“You mean Marry.”

 

Sam shifts against his side, his eyes still closed. His voice is hushed and low. Dean rubs at one of his primary feathers until it shifts back into place. “Humans Marry, Dean. Angels Tie their Graces. Angels mate for life. Tying yourself to Cas would eliminate any claim Michael could make. Tying your Grace with his soul..”

 

“Ties are forever, and, besides, it’s not like that.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Sam rolls onto his back, his wings flutter beneath him as he looks up at Dean; gathering more ash. Dean flashes back to dust baths in the sun and he feels old. “Raphael said you were Attached already. There’s intent, at least on your end. You look at him like he hung the stars, Dean. We’re fighting through Hell to rescue him. You don’t have a better plan and you won’t be able to keep him hidden from Michael forever.”

 

They haven’t even rescued Cas yet and Sam is already damning them all over again. Cas will never accept an offer like that. “Shut up.”

 

“You love him.” Sam whispers, tugging at Dean’s feathers insistently as if he’s a fledgling begging for one more round of comets and galaxies instead of an angel with the clouds at his fingertips and hellsmoke under his wings.

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

Sam is shaking his head.

 

“Just keep telling yourself that.”

When they finally make it, past everything, Cas strikes at them.

 

He lashes out, doesn’t seem to recognize, or understand why two winged creatures are after him. He holds his knife out, and bares his teeth.

 

Dean’s heart plummets even farther, as if it had anywhere else to go. There is a soul whining on the rack, a thin, broken thing. Cas is holding a knife. A knife covered in blood.

 

He broke.

 

Dean can’t imagine how painful that must have been. Cas is strong, undeniably so, and to see him made strong by that blade in his hand. Dean feels like someone took one of his wings and twisted it backwards until it snapped. Sam lays a hand on his shoulder and nods.

 

He holds out a hand, palm up, soothingly. Tries to coax his charge towards him like he used to when Cas was first learning to walk. “Cas, man, come on.”

 

But they don’t have time for Dean, or Sam, to convince Cas that they’re trying to help him, trying to save him. Demons are on their tails.

 

“Now, now, now. What do we have here?”

 

Alastair.

 

Sam has his blade, and he’s making an impressive show with one of Alastair’s demons. Blocking and twisting up and over. He takes as good as he gives, and Dean thinks they need to book it out of there before they’re all toast. They’re outnumbered, with no backup. It’s a suicide mission, at best.

 

Dean doesn’t have time to play nice with Cas.

 

“Cas. Cas, listen to me, okay? I would never hurt you. Not like he has.” Dean jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Alastair is laughing at the display.

 

“Are you even listening to yourself, boy. Besides, Castiel is happy right where he’s at, Dean.”

 

Alastair takes two quick steps forward, and Dean puts himself between them. His wings, battered and broken, come up to shield Cas from Alastair as best as they can.

 

Dean thunders. “Don’t you fucking touch him.”

 

Alastair has violated his charge in every way imaginable, and he’s going to pay for it. Dean’s Grace sparks under his hands. His anger has become a tangible thing.

 

Alastair’s smile falters when a deeper voice asks, slowly, “Dean?”

 

Then there’s a hand buried in the primary feathers meant to protect and shield and defend. The black hole is illuminated from the inside out as the edges of Cas’s soul renew Dean’s purpose. The bond, lost and broken, licks and blazes it’s way back to brilliant, blinding life. There’s nothing tender or gentle about it. Dean feels consumed, eaten alive, by the bond. By the cry of Cas’s soul and the answering echo of his own side of the link.

 

Cas is making this sobbing, gasping noise behind him. His fingers tighten and then his forehead is pressed against Dean’s shoulder. The link opens up wider, and Cas is so exhausted. So ashamed. Pieces of a memory from a hunt years ago comes back to him, Dean shielding Cas in a warehouse and blasting the threat away.

 

He starts to turn, to comfort, but Alastair seems to understand that Cas is lost to him and he strikes out.

 

Dean ducks the first punch, and rolls with it. He comes up behind Alastair, and knocks the knife to the ground with his own blade. He forces one hand on his shoulder, while the other brings his blade up. He dispatches Alastair with a gut-twisting blow, and uses as much of his Grace as he can spare to finish it. The demon screams; Dean revels in it for all of two seconds.

 

He doesn’t have time to think about how it was over too quickly for his liking. More demons are making their way to them. Sam is failing and falling, fast. They need to get out.

 

“We gotta get out of here. Now.”

  


Dean takes Castiel to Heaven.

 

All three of them are beaten and bruised. Sam’s left wing is broken in several places, so much so that Dean had to practically carry him as well as Cas.

 

Sam agrees to go to Bobby, and find out if they have a trick up their sleeve, or if Dean is going to have to run with Cas. They’re hidden from the Host, for now, but it won’t last forever.

 

Sam is giving him a look, the one that says he already knows the answer and is just ignoring it. Dean is ignoring that look.

 

Dean settles Cas’s broken soul in the shade of an oak tree.

 

There’s an old place, older than Dean and most of the angels, that still exists. Bobby used to call it the Healing River. A place where angels were baptised and cleansed after battle. There’s no map of Heaven, not really. Just a vague knowledge that all angels have imprinted in their Grace. It’s like knowing each and every back road to get home, but not being able to name them.

 

Bobby told him about the River ages ago, and it’s been one of Dean’s hiding places ever since. It’s a healing place. A safe haven.

 

He sheds his suit jacket, and the vest. Folds them over and under each other until they’re a makeshift pillow. Bloody, but a pillow nonetheless.

 

Dean rolls his sleeves up, and places careful hands on Cas. He’s torn up, everywhere. The soft blue glow of Cas’s soul has been overrun and marred. Dean’s Grace isn’t much better off, to be fair. Hell has taken its toll on all three of them, Sam included. He’s not sure how he’s going to fix Cas. Dean isn’t even sure if he can.

 

He starts by stripping both of them, and sinking into the River with Cas. Hands under the wings of his shoulders, supporting him, Dean drifts Cas’s soul into the widest part of the River, where the willow tree still reaches over the bank and touches the water, before dipping his head underwater, briefly, and carding gentle hands through the mess that is his hair. He lets Cas wake up slowly. The first thing he registers are Dean’s eyes, and the expression on his face is something Dean will cherish forever. It’s wonder and awe. It’s peace and bliss and joy wrapped in slow healing.

 

Dean grins, and spreads his wings above the water. Cas’s eyes widen. “See? Get you fixed up, good as new, baby.”

 

Cas coughs a few times and settles back in the water again.  Everything hurts. all over the place. “Then what.”

 

Turns out he can only stay in the River for so long. By the time Dean pulls him out onto the muddy bank underneath the willow branches, his arms and hands are numb in a way that’s disconcerting. His legs are long past feeling. His face is wet, that much he knows.

 

“Dean,” His voice doesn’t sound right either. It’s cracked and hoarse. He wants to reach up and touch Dean. That feels like the right thing to do, but his hand won’t move. His fingers won’t obey his order. “Dean, I don’t like this. I don’t feel right.”

 

“We left you for too long.” Dean mumbles under his breath. He’s tilting Cas’s head back and brushing his hair from his face. “You were in Hell for too long, Cas. I’m sorry.”

 

Cas wants to tell him it’s alright, but he’s not sure it is. He’s not sure what comes next, until he is. He wants to grab Dean’s face in his hands and pull him down, but he can’t, so he has to settle for the next best thing.

 

He waits until Dean leans over him, shirtless and barely smiling, haloed by the light filtered through leaves and branches, and Cas tilts his mouth up just so until his lips press against Dean’s. Dean goes still and tense for a fraction of a second and then he’s back, soft and strong.

 

And then Cas can’t stop.

 

The first few are sweet and tentative. They’re chaste and tender. Cas can’t do much , but the feeling is coming back into his fingers. It’s pins and needles and warmth. Gorgeous warmth.

 

Dean is lit up like a fucking christmas tree.

 

He has a halo of white gold hovering just over the crown of his head. It’s a perfect circlet, and his wings are darkened, but they’re still as shocking as Cas remembers. Still so much a part of Dean, so other, that Cas can’t remember them not being there.

 

His hands are finally back online, closer to normal than they’ve been in years, and the numbness is leaving his arms. The first thing he touches is Dean’s face. Cas traces the slope of his jaw and drags a finger down the tip of his nose.

 

It’s so good to see him again.

 

They’ve stopped kissing now, it’s just a gentle press of hands against skin. Mapping out new planes and old ones. Dean touches his shoulder and his hip and it sparks in his chest, it picks up and spreads like a wildfire. Fireworks light up behind his eyes and dynamite explodes in his chest. It’s been years since anyone’s touched him like it matters. He’s suddenly, insanely, grateful that he’s sharing it with Dean. The one who knows him inside and outside and upside down. The one who would follow him to Hell and to Heaven and all the spaces in between.

 

Something wet spatters on his face, and he has to look up. Dean is hovering there and his eyes are so bright. His shoulders are shaking, wings shifting restlessly above him.

 

“Dean.”

 

“I’m sorry, Cas.”  He’s crying his hands are clenched in the mud and dirt beneath them. “We can stop-”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“There’s a way,” Dean grinds his teeth and shuts his eyes for a few seconds, and then he’s whispering, fierce and sudden. “A way to stop Michael from ever taking you. But it’s risky, it’s never been done before. A bond,” He breathes in once and then again before continuing. Cas runs careful, steady hands over his shoulder blades. “Angels mate for life, Cas, like…”

 

“Like swans.”

 

“..yeah.”

 

“So you haven’t-”

 

“No.” Dean grits out. His arms give out and he ends up lying in the mud next to Cas, one palm over his eyes.

 

“Dean, look at me.” He’s digging his fingernails into his palms, but he still looks at Cas. “Remember snow angels in Kansas? Remember buying my ticket to prom and,” Cas laughs. “You got a tux for me but it was too small and you could see my socks, and I couldn’t dance for shit until you taught me. Remember the pack of werewolves that I didn’t know about in West Virginia that almost slaughtered me-”

 

“Saved your bacon on that one.”

 

Cas rolls over, straddling Dean’s lap. Dean must have stripped them both before they bathed in the River, and Cas feels like they’re on equal footing now. Dean, without his immaculate suit and tie, seems a little more real; more tangible. The slide of skin on skin is warm and wonderful and so incredibly gentle after Hell that Cas has to suck in a breath. “You’re an angel. I’m a blink in your fathomless existence, how could I ever ask the light, you, to love me back. I’m broken, Dean. I’m angry and violent and half-cocked. I’m a suicide mission. I’ve got my finger on the trigger most of the time. I thought this was just a job for you, at first. But it isn’t, is it? It’s never been just about the prophecy.”

 

“I’ve always loved you. You kept reaching out when you shouldn’t have. Pushing the boundaries, but that’s what I loved about you; your fire. Angels, we’re built to love completely, man. This is permanent, absolute. This is forever for me.”

  


“Forever, thats.. that’s good.” Cas is already resolved. He’s never wanted anything more. He’s already been through so much, it would be nice to at least have a little warning. “Will it hurt? What do we have to do.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean reaches up, lifting a hand to his chest. He’s steadier now. “It’s gonna hurt, Cas but it’ll be over quick. Just close your eyes and hold on, okay?”

 

Hold on, whatever that means. “Okay.”

 

It starts out like ripples, barely there, and turns into bright waves, gentle and soothing and warm. The waves want to crack him open and delve inside his chest and at first it seems like a bad idea. Cas almost shies away from the touch but it’s so incredibly familiar that Cas recognizes it as Dean instantly and he opens up. Something gives way and then it’s more of a tidal wave of light and it’s too much. He’s going to be swallowed up and lost.

 

Dean’s voice is like a tether, and he holds on.

 

“Neither life, nor death, nor angels, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us. I will not withhold my heart from any joy. I will write upon him my new name...”

 

The tidal wave is changing into a fierce hurricane. His face is wet, why he doesn’t know.  Dean’s hand on his heart, strong and sure, grounds him once more. One of his palms -his right? he isn’t sure- is being placed on warm skin, against a fast heartbeat. Sparks are alive behind his eyes, and it burns. Dean is on top of him and he can’t remember how that happened, only that it feels perfect. The weight on his shifts and suddenly there’s breath in his ear, someone getting ready to whisper. The palm over his heart starts to burn and he wants to cry out but he waits patiently.  

 

Dean’s voice wavers only slightly. “Grace be with you, beloved Castiel.”

 

It rushes up his arm and spreads through his chest like a wildfire. It consumes him, and he can’t help it, he cries out and opens his eyes. The sky has changed from a sunny blue to something he’s only know as an aurora borealis. Greens and blues and purples and golds all mixing together.

 

He holds on through the heat. His hand is melded to Dean’s chest and he couldn’t physically move if he wanted to, but he holds tight with everything else. Dean is making pained noises, grinding into Cas’s thigh. Impulsively, he tilts his hips and thrusts up. It doesn’t take much, Dean arches his back and kisses Cas, licks inside his mouth like he rebuilt it, like he knows it. Cas nips at his bottom lip and that’s it, show’s over.

 

He blacks out.

 

When he comes to, there are feathers blanketing him. Dean’s head is pillowed on his stomach, and he’s wrapped his arms around Cas’s waist. His knees are tucked underneath Cas’s left thigh, and he’s snoring lightly. His wings have taken on a silver tint, and they’re twitching in his sleep.

 

He’s beautiful.

 

Cas tries to sit up, and rethinks it immediately. It’s like someone took a nail gun to his forehead and the nail is still lodged right between his eyes, in the front of his skull. It hurts more than he thought it would, the strange symbols from the Tie branded across his heart, and his soul, and his mind. He wipes at the dried tears on his face, a mixture of ecstasy and pain, and finds another set on the heel of his palm.

 

He doesn’t know what the symbols mean, but he has an inkling that the ones on his chest belong to Dean.

 

They’re sore to the touch -echoing back to the new thread dancing between his mind and Dean’s that still feels open and raw-, but they bring a sense of peace and fullness that he’s never had before. Dean is mojoing him into complacency and calm as he sleeps on. He’s lulling Cas back into it without trying.

 

Cas combs his fingers through Dean’s hair and fall asleep again on the muddy riverbank underneath a sky painted gold.

  


When Cas wakes up next, he’s surrounded by colors. It’s not the stark, bleak white that Hell had been in places, or the muted awful black it had been in others. It’s not the gold or the blue of the place on the Riverbank.

 

But he still doesn’t feel real, either.

 

Wildflowers are everywhere. He sits up, and they go on for miles in every direction. Daisies and little periwinkle cornflowers. Poppies that stand out against black-eyed susans and bright pink zinnias. Wild roses in every shade.

 

Cas is in a field that seems to go on forever.

 

And he’s clean, and warm. The sun is shining and the clouds are barely breaking the sky up. Cas runs careful hands over his skin at first, fearful of what he might find.

 

But... everything is as it was. His face is the same. The nose a little crooked from that bar fight in Indiana where he earned a broken nose and a night in the drunk tank. The wisp of a scar from Balthazar's seventh birthday party when Jo had slipped with the knife for a fraction of a second while Cas was leaning over the counter just so to help blow out the candles. His hair is the same length. HIs clothes are the same he was wearing when-

 

Yeah, died. Before he died.

 

Isn’t that a cheerful thought.

 

But they’re not ripped or bloody or mangled in any way. Dean restored him, perfectly.

 

There’s stories about places, realms, other than Hell. Purgatory comes to mind, but Cas doubts it looks quite like this. The last book he read on the subject was fairly detailed on the monsters living in that realm attacking whatever was in their path. Limbo is hearsay, as far as Cas knows. Just a legend, like angels, but Dean has never mentioned it in their travels like the other three.

 

Which really only leaves one other viable alternative.

 

He gets up, and tries to survey his surroundings, but the flowers are just everywhere. So he cups his hands around his mouth and tries to yell into the vastness. Into the distance.

 

“Dean!”

 

The sound echoes and bounces off something before spiralling back to him. Cas starts in the direction the sound came back from,  wading through knee-deep, blue cornflowers and pushing them aside to make a path.

 

The only problem is, as soon as he walks through, the flowers just pop back up like they weren’t even touched. Like they were never disturbed. There’s no way to get back to the point where he started from.

 

No bread crumbs to follow.

  


Dean goes to buy them some time, to distract Zach while Sam follows through with the plan and baits Lucifer into confronting Michael in Heaven instead of on Earth.

 

The instant he’s in Zachariah’s office, he’s slammed against the wall. The neat desk from his first visit is in shambles. The Newton’s cradle is broken, strings trailing the floor, and the windows are cracked in several places.

 

So far, so good.

 

“Where is he?” Zachariah demands, holding his angel blade above Dean’s throat. “Give him to me, you disobedient piece of slime.”

 

Dean shoves Zachariah’s hands down, and shoves the blade away from himself with his own. The clash of blades is sharp, rings through the room. “Give him to you? To what? Watch the whole world burn?” Dean shakes his head and spits. “Never.”

 

“We need him as Michael’s vessel to confront Lucifer.”

 

“Don’t you get it?” Dean straightens his tie, the side of his mouth ticks upwards once. “The big showdown isn’t going to happen. Not this century, pal. Not with Cas at the helm. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

 

“That’s blasphemy!” Zachariah yells. “You’ll be cast out for disobedience. For going against prophecy. Lucifer is already walking the Earth. The time is right - we need Michael’s vessel now.”

 

“I didn’t break the covenant. In light and dark, right? I did my job. I upheld the Guardian’s first rule. How is that blasphemy?”

 

Zachariah's grin turns feral. “You were ordered by Michael himself to cease and desist. You disobeyed, and you will be punished accordingly.”

 

“His life and mine. We’re Tied, now. It ends when I say so.”

 

“Your life isn’t yours, you power and your Grace belong to the Host; to your brothers. Give him to me now, hand him over, we can break the Tie, and you keep your wings.”

 

“It’s all about the rules, Zach. You assholes just pick and choose which ones you want to follow, and when. So. If you want him, you’ll have to take me down first. Finish the job the sons of bitches in Hell started. Go ahead.” Dean spreads his arms and lifts his head. Sam is safe, hidden away. Cas is so deep in his version of Heaven that no angel, besides Sam, will ever be able to find him. “You can’t kill me, not with Cas alive. The only thing you can do is take my wings.

 

And I’d love to see you try.”

  


It’s starting to rain.

 

The clouds from earlier somehow joined together and decided that it was time to start making noise. Rumbles kick up from seemingly nowhere. It’s mostly thunder, but there’s an occasional flash of lightning that makes Cas wish there was some sort of shelter nearby. The wind is whipping through the field, tangling the stems and leaves of the flowers together into knots and bending the stalks to the ground.

 

It reminds Cas of the ocean, for some reason, like waves crashing against each other.

 

He has no idea how far he’s walked, but there’s no end, and there’s no beginning. It stretches on and on.

 

Cas thinks this must be Heaven, because it’s a nicer, more boring version of Hell. He’s taken to talking to Dean, even though he’s not answering, because he knows the bastard can hear his prayers. The Tie makes them reverberate even louder. Cas can feel Dean pulsing just in the back of his mind, quiet and observing.

 

“I hope you’re aware of how pissed off I am at this very moment.”

 

“You couldn’t have left me in a nice restaurant with burgers? It’s been years since I last ate, Dean. Years. And here I thought you understood humans. This is supposed to be Heaven and you dumped me in a field. Honestly.”

 

“This is stupid. Heaven is stupid. No wonder you like Earth so much. Here I thought you fucked off to some gorgeous place filled with harps and peace and singing. It’s never ending loops of rainbows and sunshine that’s bullshit.”

 

“Dean you can’t leave me here, I need to get back to Balthazar.”

 

“I’m serious. He’s probably fucked or drunk himself into a coma or jail by now. You know how he is if someone isn’t watching his every move. ”

 

“I’m all he has left, and I’m not even there.”

 

“C’mon, Dean. I’m praying, okay? The least you could do is let me in on the plan.”

 

Cas feels a little bit like he’s in that part of the movie, Alice in Wonderland. The water is starting to rise. It’s not running in rivulets, in paths. It’s just laying in puddles, starting to gather in places that are uneven.

 

And the rain isn’t stopping.

  


Zachariah turns around, and then he’s gone. Michael is standing in his place, staring at Dean, hands held loosely at his sides. The sight of him makes something flare in Dean’s Grace, something like wonder at seeing the First.

 

It’s been so long since he’s come face to face with his oldest brother, alone. Dean wonders if he’ll feel like this when Lucifer crosses his path and immediately dismisses that thought as ridiculous.

 

He won’t be crossing paths with Lucifer. Not anytime soon.

 

“What have you done.” It’s not a question, it’s a demand.

 

Dean isn’t going to tell him. It’s plain enough. Cas is branded on his Grace and on his wings. His soul is threaded and braided through every fiber of Dean’s being, now. The blastwave that rippled through the Host was obvious enough let alone the gold sky above them. Concealing a Tie is damn near impossible. “You know, or you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

 

“You are toying with something bigger than all of us.”

 

“Michael, if you would just listen-”

 

“Listen? To you? To Lucifer?” Michael takes a step back. “He’s flattened Detroit. It won’t be long now. I need to do my duty.”

 

“Well, go ahead. But not with Cas.”

 

“Not with your pet.”

 

“Not with my bonded.” Dean spits blood on the floor. “Not with the Righteous Man that was supposed to be the Rock of Angels. The one that was foretold to deliver us, Michael. No, you can’t have him like this. I won’t let you.”

 

And then Sam is in the room with them, an arm wrapped around Dean’s shoulders to hoist him up. “He’s not far.”

 

“Good.”

 

Michael pales. “What do you mean?”

 

“Oh, I think you know.” Sam practically drips sarcasm.

Michael is having a hard time not looking at Lucifer.

 

He’s changed, of course he has. It’s been hundreds, no thousands, of years. In darkness and torture and the worst fate ever dreamed up for an angel. God made it painful, he made it so that Lucifer would beg for forgiveness and see the error of his ways.

 

But, it seems, no such thing has happened here.

 

He stands, proud and unashamed, at the Gates. Michael felt his mutated Grace leak through as soon as Samuel descended back to Earth with Dean.

 

Vessels don’t matter in Heaven. Michael has no use for Castiel at this point in time.

 

Maybe Dean was right, maybe he is the rock of angels. Just a different set.

 

Lucifer doesn’t hold back, Michael never expected him to. The first few blows of his fists, of his wings, are more shocking than painful.

 

When his knees crash into the marble road beneath them, Michael is already in tears for what is about to happen. In a sad parody of Lucifer’s fall, he bows his head, and spreads his wings low to the ground.

 

Because he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to fight his brother, not again. He’s had too much time to consider what’s happened. What he did. It isn’t fair to Lucifer, and it isn’t fair to Michael.

 

What their father did -  it wasn’t fair. Michael knows this now, and he’s sorry.

 

Even if Lucifer decides not to listen, Michael can still do this one thing. He can still bow his head and cry, sob like he should have when he threw away the one thing that could never be replaced.

 

There’s a rush of air as Lucifer is shoved backwards and a pair of boots materialize in his line of vision.

 

Heeled boots.

 

Lucifer is on his knees, a reflection of Michael now. They’re both looking up at the woman standing between them.

 

And Michael can’t believe what he’s seeing. What he’s feeling, the light in his chest, the song of the rest of the Host. It can’t be real, it can’t.  

 

“You know, for such a great creator, your dad really let things go to Hell. Literally.”

 

Lucifer flicks him a glance, but Michael doesn’t have any answers.

 

“Come on, boys. I know you want to ask.” Her arms are folded across her chest, and she’s looking at each of them like she knows, like she’s waiting.

 

Michael is suddenly angry. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he doesn’t enjoy it when someone else possesses the upper hand.  “We are not boys.”

 

She whips around to face him, and puts her hands on her hips. “And yet you’re acting like children. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

 

“You made us this way.” Lucifer says lowly.”It was God’s prophecy that brought us here in the first place.”

 

She runs a hand through her pixie cut, and sighs. “Prophecy. What a complete crock.”

 

“So you are God.”

 

“Not that God, but yeah. For our purposes, I’m in charge now.”

 

God is wearing a black leather skirt and red lipstick.

  


Turns out Cas was praying to the wrong angel.

 

As it is, Sam shows up just in time. Just before the rain overtakes him. Just before the tide washes him down the drain. Sam sweeps him back to Earth, and back to his body.

 

The push-pull of his first breath is harsh. Angry, almost. Cas breathes in, in his own grave, coughs, and wishes he didn’t have to breathe anymore. He stays still, unmoving in his coffin, for several minutes trying to understand just what he’s going to be when he gets out.

 

Reborn.

 

It’s strange. He doesn’t like it.

 

He doesn’t like the idea that Dean could have saved any of those souls still on the rack. He doesn’t like that fact that he gets to come home after everything that he put all of those seemingly innocent souls through.

 

He barely musters the will to grab Sam’s hand when it’s offered.

 

The sunlight burns, a bit. He has to squint and screw his face up to even see anything before a shadow passes over him, and suddenly he can see again. Everything is overly bright, too vibrant to be real. The grass is so green, Cas shies away from it.

 

And that stupid song is ringing in his head. That one about being lost and found, and it’s not right, but maybe it is.

 

Because Dean is standing on the other side, staring, his eyes wet and his wings fluttering nervously, and Cas can’t not get out of the grave now. The Tie is practically vibrating hope and happiness, so he grabs two hands, and pulls himself up and out, finally face to face with Balthazar.

 

He’s hardly upright when his little brother (not so little anymore, apparently) crashes into him. Balthazar wraps arms around Cas’s shoulders and clings with everything he has.

 

And it’s very quiet when Cas clings back.

  


EPILOGUE

  
  


Dean has a black jacket, now.

 

He’s done away with the suit and tie, for the most part. Heaven is going for casual, these days. Dean claims he doesn’t like jeans, but Cas knows he’s lying. His growing collection in the back of the mustang is telling enough. His bag is full to bursting as he shoves it in the trunk.

 

“You take care of yourself, okay? I don’t know what ‘Hell Renovation’ actually means, but it sounds dangerous.”

 

Dean grins. “I like the regime change. I could really get behind this whole revamp free love thing she’s got going on.”

 

“I think you’re missing the point.”

 

“They’re getting along better than they ever have.” Lucifer has taken to Sam’s son like Ariel was always a part of the fold. Michael has been working closely with him to draw up plans and make arrangements. Today is the day everything in Hell changes. Dean leans forward and kisses Cas’s forehead. “There’s nothing to worry about, Cas. You, on the other hand-”

 

Cas rolls his eyes. The Tie goes taut between them, a solid give and take as Cas’s frustration bleeds through, and Dean tilts his head. He scratches at the symbols that rub unpleasantly against his shirt. Dean had told him what they meant -new names, Cas. didn’t you ever read the bible with all that seal on your heart stuff? what kind of hunter are you?- and what the enochian was for. Dean’s new name is ‘moz’, or joy, and he  explains Cas’s name, ‘toh’, means triumph. It’s branded on Dean in solid black letters, already healed over.

 

When the Tie bleeds the other’s emotions, it aggravates the skin uncomfortably. And Dean is leaving in a matter of minutes. Cas is happy for him, but worried. Dean is worried right back. They haven’t been separated since Cas crawled out of his grave. Two months of steady contact to build up and to nurture the Tie. Hopefully it’s enough

 

Dean slaps his hand away, not unkindly. “Stop picking at that.”

 

It still itches. Cas mumbles under his breath, but drops his hand. “It’s just a salt and burn, for fuck’s sake.”

 

“I was going to say, have fun.”

 

Cas considers for a moment, and then looks away to the door of the other motel room where Balthazar is still sleeping. “‘Zar wants to visit Niagra Falls while we’re up there.”

 

“Of course he does. I meant fun fun, like, party fun.”

 

If Cas watches him long enough, he can make out the green-black feathers. If he focuses, he can even touch them; smooth them out, comfort Dean without saying a word.

 

Today, Cas wraps one hand around Dean’s waist, and rests his forehead against his back. He curls one hand in feathers, and breathes in leather and lightning. Dean covers Cas’s hand with his own and they stand there for a minute, radiating love and worry without saying a word.  

 

Dean puts a stop to it, turning and kissing Cas once, twice, three times, until Cas shakes his head and smiles.

 

“I’ll see you soon, okay? It’ll go quick. Promise.” He’s stepping out of the circle of Cas’s arms so he can go.

 

Cas raises one hand and barely waves. “Bye, Dean.”

 

“Seeya, Cas.”

 

He takes off in a rush of air and a snap, and then it’s just Cas sitting on the hood of the mustang, waiting for Balthazar to get out of bed and head out to the next hunt, and then the one after that. The sun isn’t quite peeking over the horizon, but Cas doesn’t mind waiting.

Smiling at nothing and rubbing absently at his palm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3  
> you can find me over on tumblr as [leatherandlightning](leatherandlightning.tumblr.com)


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